


Pas de Deux (A Dance for Two Dancers)

by tmelange



Series: Forever the Same [2]
Category: DCU - Comicverse, Smallville
Genre: Angst, First Time Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Plot-Intensive, Pre-Capes, Red Kryptonite, Young Clark and Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 97,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://samibee.livejournal.com/8814.html"></a><br/><img/><br/>During his sophomore year of high school, Clark Kent explores a startling weakness to red Kryptonite and spends the summer in Metropolis, where he meets Bruce Wayne again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: A Seared Road

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> This story follows _For Ever Nearer Yet._ You'd have to read that story first before you'd completely understand this one.
> 
> This story is an offshoot of the _Smallville_ take on red Kryptonite, the second season finale _Exodus_ and third season premiere _Exile._ However, this is not a crossover in the traditional sense as I merely use some of the facts and circumstances surrounding those episodes and Clark's interaction with red K to do some extrapolation for this particular story without necessarily adopting any of the other things that might be specific to the Smallville universe. You really don't need to have ever seen _Smallville_ to understand this.
> 
> Written in 2006.

**Prelude: A Seared Road**

_Because the earth shook—it did—, that awful night;_  
then dawn filled all the goblets with its wine;  
the heavenly sun declared itself; 

_while inside, a ferocious love wound around_  
and around me—till it pierced me with its thorns, its sword,  
slashing a seared road through my heart. 

+

_The Justice League Watchtower…in the distant future…_

Many years from now, when the Justice League is little more than a grand ideal and the tentative teamwork of the Big Seven, sometime after Batman modifies an existing WayneTech satellite and presents it as the League's orbital headquarters; at a time yet to come when identities are still a closely guarded secret, and personal interaction between heroes is still awkward, stilted, restrained—

There will come a day, a battle, that will serve to put the members of the League on notice—of a history between the most famous icons in their midst, an unrevealed relationship of many years, a preordained order to things that wasn't disclosed when the League was formed and Batman stood at one end of the room—silent, distant—and Superman at the other. Words would have been insufficient, in any case, the observer knows. The other members of the team—the outsiders—will have to _see_ it to _believe._

On a late night, as the team is de-briefing in the conference room after their first coordinated relief mission, their enemies attack, determined to knock the heroes, who had presumptuously placed themselves so high above their human charges, out of the sky. The five outsiders—Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, The Flash and Hawkgirl—do see, and are astonished, and more than a little concerned.

Perhaps, Superman will explain it best, days later, after the battle, when he is cornered by Wonder Woman and asked outright whether there is a relationship between himself and Batman that might affect the team. _He is my limit,_ Superman will say, ducking his head and walking away. _I am his measure._

The attack is funded by Lex Luthor, but the League won't know the extent of his involvement, the depth of his fury and vitriol, and the history of his obsession with Superman until weeks after the incident.

"Peripheral breach," Batman announces, as the alarm sounds loudly in the conference room. The red lights start flashing, taking the gathered heroes off guard. He pushes his chair back, moves in the direction of the room's main computer interface.

"I'll check it out," The Flash says, secretly glad to have an excuse to end the monotony of yet another meeting.

"No." Batman's tone of voice stops the scarlet speedster cold, even though he's already out of the room. "Information first," the Dark Knight says as his fingers fly over the keyboard. "We have a surveillance system. Rushing in blindly will only make the situation worse."

"What's going on?" Superman asks as he approaches Batman's right side, gazes over his shoulder.

"A battalion of bio-mechanical entities has disrupted our shields and breached the hanger bay." Batman pauses. "Three unmanned devices have attached themselves to the hull…and are attempting to destabilize our orbit." Another pause. "Technology is…Kryptonian-based."

"Brainiac," Superman says, voice grim, and only Batman really understands the danger implicit in that one word. "I'll handle the devices attached to the hull—"

"No," Batman countermands, turning and griping Superman's arm, preventing his departure. His voice is gruff, tight with urgency. "Too many mechanicals inside. If they gain control of our systems, the machines on the outside won't matter. They'll be able to vent the oxygen, turn our weapons systems on Earth. We have twenty-three minutes until our orbit decays. Interior containment takes priority." He raises his voice a decibel as he turns towards the team, and his tone requires immediate and unquestioning compliance with his analysis of the situation. "Concentrated response. Hanger bay. Everyone, _go."_

The heroes disperse, a rush of air, a flash of cape, but Batman is the only one who can't fly, run like the wind, sink through the floor; he has to make it down to the hanger bay using nothing but his human resources and while counteracting a security system that has locked down the elevators and the doors accessing the most direct route. Days later, when the League reviews the attack sequence, looking for errors, ways to improve their defenses, their teamwork, they will realize that someone should have thought to assist Batman, but the team is still new to coordinated responses, and Batman is too off-putting for assistance of any kind to be a natural by-product of hurried action.

The result: Batman arrives at the hanger bay a critical eleven minutes after Superman engages sixteen bio-mechanicals specially equipped to end his life, to find the battle won…but the aftermath a scene of such desolation—he has to stop at the doorway to get his bearings, the thunder and the silence at such a pitch of twined intensity…it takes him outside of himself, throws him into that detached place where The Batman can handle any blood-drenched nightmare without losing the pinpoint focus he needs to survive.

His periphery vision takes in Hawkgirl and Green Lantern turning the last two robots into a pile of scrap metal, but he only has eyes for the Kryptonian pinned to the wall of the bay with nine crystalline harpoons glowing a sickly green in the dim light: one in each shoulder, two through the chest, one through the stomach and each calf, and two through the right thigh. He looks like a sculpture hanging there, a masterpiece desecrated with splashes of wet red paint. The blood— _there is so much blood!_

Batman moves slowly, but deliberately— _if only he had been faster!_ —towards the group of heroes gathered around his… _teammate, friend, brother...partner, lover, **beloved.**_ As sure as he is that his own poor planning has caused him to arrive too late, Batman knows he was the only one who could have stopped Superman from rushing in—and he hadn't been there, wasn't where he was supposed to be when Clark needed him the most. The knowledge will haunt him for the rest of his life, he knows. Another nightmare to add to a lifetime of nightmares.

"Lantern," he says in a low, level voice as Green Lantern and Hawkgirl land to his right. "The droids attached to the hull. _Go."_

It is the semblance of himself holding Superman's hand that blows through his detached calm like a violent wind, leaving only grief, only fury in its wake. It wells up in his throat, choking him like a potentiality trapped by a cork in the mouth of a bottle. When he gets within three feet of the desecration, the Batman holding Superman's hand morphs into J'onn and turns in his direction. It takes all of Batman's control not to attack the person who would presume to stand in his stead, who would dare to touch—

"He wouldn't respond to anyone else. I…read his mind. He needed you here. It was the only thing that would keep him alive," J'onn explains, voice conciliatory.

"I'm sorry, Batman." Wonder Woman—placing a hand on his shoulder, gazing at him with tears in her eyes. "He fought valiantly. These _machines,"_ she spits the word, "seemed programmed to attack him first, and were equipped with these green weapons that could pierce his skin, despite his invulnerability. He…seemed affected by them, even from a distance. Still, he took the brunt of the attack on himself—"

"Pull them out."

Hawkgirl intercedes, her concern for her dead teammate evident. "Maybe we should—"

_"Pull them out."_ Batman takes a small, imperceptible breath, trying to settle a stomach that lurches and feels as if it wants to empty itself on the ground in front of him.

_"Superman,"_ The Flash says, vibrating in his anguish. "I can't believe the Big Guy's gone. What are those things?" he asks in a low, mournful voice as Wonder Woman and J'onn use their incredible strength to start the agonizing process of extracting each lance and lowering Superman carefully to the ground.

"Kryptonite," Batman says. One more minute, perhaps two. Just until he can send them away—

"Kryptonite?" Flash says. "What's that? What should we do—?"

"Take those," Batman says, nodding in the direction of the pile of deadly, glowing harpoons. "Get out."

Wonder Woman interrupts gently. "Batman, don't you think—"

Batman closes his eyes, behind the mask, the lenses. His heart beats suddenly, painfully in his throat. He wants to speak calmly but cannot. Fury, and wild despair seize him, and an intolerable ache that makes the world turn black around him.

_"Get. OUT."_

They huff, hang their heads, but they comply. They have no choice, really, in the face of his sudden and uncharacteristic rage.

Finally, he is alone. His knees buckle. He falls to the ground at the side of the man he has called friend for so many years, the friend who is closer to him than any brother, though they often have their differences. The love—of his life, a life so dichotomous only someone who shares the same dreams could understand. There isn't enough air to pull into his heaving lungs. He takes off his cowl, gloves. Reaches for the tears—in the uniform, in his skin.

_Clark._

He places a hand to Clark's chest, trying to stop the slow spilling, the bleeding to death. There is no heartbeat under his hands, no rise and fall, no—

_No._

Bruce has seen this before. Perhaps he is the only one so well versed in Clark's secrets, his heritage, the mysteries of his alien physiology. Once before they had been like this, Clark seemingly dead, impossibly injured, his vital signs reduced to nothing. Still, he came back. At that time, Bruce had known no better. He had given up, broken faith. But Clark came back. He came back. Such a miracle will occur this time, too, Bruce knows. He merely has to trust in Clark, trust that Clark would never leave him alone...and wait.

"Clark." This time he says it out loud. He is surprised at how calm, at how sure he sounds.

_"Clark."_

Eyes open, unfocused and bright with pain. Eyes the wet blue of violets after a rainstorm lock on Bruce in hurt and confusion.

_"Bruce."_ It is nothing more than a wet whisper. To Bruce, it sounds like a shout echoing inside his own chest. "What...?"

Bruce smiles, small, wry, reaches out with the hand not covered in his friend's blood, touches Clark's face, his hair. "I leave you alone for ten minutes and you—there isn't a careful bone in your body, Clark," Bruce chides as he smooths the wayward curls away from Clark's eyes. He starts in on his years-long gripe, simply to effect a return to normalcy in the midst of madness. "You approach everything like a battering ram, trusting your invulnerability to indemnify you from the consequences. But you're not invulnerable, we both know that. One day you're going to—" _Get yourself killed._

Eyelids quiver and…close.

Bruce holds his breath—will hold it forever, if necessary—and waits for them to open again, to once more be caught, speechless, by the paradox in those blue eyes.

"Clark."

_"Clark."_

From across a widening chasm, Clark hears, tries to respond, because he knows what it will do to Bruce if he were to leave him alone, like this, bleeding on the floor in his arms. He opens his eyes, slowly, blinking with the pain that brings tears to his eyes…sees the one person who has been with him since the beginning, their relationship so special, like a palindrome—going backwards instead of forwards, that manages to do both at the same time.

_"Bruce."_ Always, Bruce, pulling, pushing, standing in front of him, behind him, at his side. Protecting, challenging, restraining. The standard by which everything else in his life is judged. Memories of their life together press harder than the present, sing to him from his wounds, every syllable a heartbeat. "I'm sorry…I'm sorry," he whispers. "About Metropolis, Bruce. What I did to you. _What I did_ —I never said it. All these years…you've never…trusted me. _Forgiven_ …I should have explained—"

What use is this sentiment? Clark wonders. Too late, remorse. In the end, one can only be judged by one’s actions. Clark closes his eyes, can't keep them open.

Bruce shakes his head, shakes his friend until those eyes open again. "I always trusted you. _Always._ Even in the beginning, not knowing how, not knowing why. You were so wild, so dangerous—it felt like…it felt like holding the lightning, the thunder in the palm of my hands." The grip, tight, will not let him go, will never let go. "Don't apologize. We were…"

_Beautiful._

Bruce tries to make the right sound around the lump in his throat. "Never apologize—," he manages to say. _For taking me through the crucible, taking me to the edge of a heightened and unhinged world and re-making me there. For teaching me the secret of the extremes, for giving me the courage to so completely change my life._

"You did nothing I didn't want you to do. Even when you were cruel—somehow, you did only what I would allow." He smiles again, just a little. "Though, I suppose I didn't know my own limits." He leans in, rests his forehead against Clark's, lowers his voice to a raw whisper. "But Clark, that young man in Metropolis saw the fire in you, the determination, the immense strength and the reckless courage, and loved you for it.

"He loves you for it, Clark."

"It wasn't me—"

"It was you, a side of you no one sees. But I saw it."

"I hurt you…"

Bruce sighs. _"I hurt you, too."_

This time it is Clark who shakes his head, a small movement aborted by pain and a sharp intake of breath. "You _saved_ me…like an angel…mine…no one else…could have saved me…from myself…and I never told you… _I never told you…"_

Bruce pulls back. "What…?"

Clark's voice is wet from the fluid in his lungs, hitched, fading. "This…thing that pulls us together…beyond reason…Bruce…I did it. When we were in Metropolis. I didn't know…it's not real…"

"Stop talking," Bruce says, raising a finger to Clark's lips. "Save your strength. You can tell me about it later."

"Go…to the Fortress. The computer…might be able to—"

"What are you talking about?"

"Remember…remember the last time…in Metropolis, when we…"

Bruce remembers. _He remembers._ "You left me."

"It was…the hardest thing…I ever had to do but…I had to go home, Bruce. I made…a wreck of your life, I—"

Clark is struggling, Bruce can tell, and it is tearing him apart. He thinks there must be something he can do to make this extremity pass—keep Clark talking, prevent him from talking—anything to stop this slow fading…

But Clark fights to continue, and all Bruce can do is listen.

"That last time… _remember_ …we're…connected, Bruce. On Krypton…a connection of souls—to the person…who will live half your life...and die...half your death. But I didn't know—"

"Stop."

"I think I'm dying—"

"You're not dying. You're not."

"If you feel… _anything_ …go to the Fortress, the computer—"

"Stop."

A hand that rises, falls. Beseeching. "Promise me…you'll take care…of Lois. Tell her…I did love her. Tell her…I'm sorry…" _I loved you so much more. Infinitely more._

"You're not dying. If we're…connected in whatever way, you can't leave me. I won't let you. You're going to get up, and we're going to head to the infirmary, and you're going to rest. And you'll be awake when I start in on you for always rushing in like a goddamn fool."

"I—"

"You had to know there was Kryptonite, Clark!"

"They…came for me. For _me,_ Bruce. I…couldn't…let them destroy everything we've built—" Eyes close, open slowly, long lashes flutter. "This had to be…Lex. No one else would know—"

_How to kill you._

Something like hate—but is so much _more_ than ordinary, everyday _hate_ —pools in the pit of Bruce's stomach as he digests the truth of that statement. Lex Luthor. Only Lex would do something to Clark so vicious, so cruel—

"I didn't…want anyone else to get hurt."

"Ass," Bruce says, but Clark has invoked the one name that changes everything, and Batman is already reasoning out a way to fix this. He will not allow Lex Luthor to win. Luthor will never have Clark, not in life, not in death, not as long as there is breath remaining in Bruce's body. He simply has to get Clark up. He trusts Clark to do the rest.

"Gave the team…time to take them out."

"Almost got yourself killed."

"Almost…" Clark smiles wistfully, just a glimpse of those perfectly straight white teeth in a face that is almost too handsome in its symmetry. His eyes close.

_"Clark._ Clark, if you do this I'll never forgive you… _Clark."_

Bruce leans in, kisses him— _kisses him_ —with all of the love, the shared purpose. With all that is beautiful, all that is still possible. With the memory of survival, the pulse of blood, the same blood, in both their veins…

He knows the moment Clark opens his eyes again, feels the tension, anticipates the sharp intake of breath. Hears his name in an appalled whisper— _Bruce!_ —the frantic shove that pushes him, sends him flying out of harm's way. Watches from the floor as Superman gets up, as if the pain of the last fifteen minutes meant nothing, and dispatches the latest threat that has feigned quiescence, waiting for its moment to strike.

Quickly, Batman is at Superman's side, propping him up, cowl, gauntlets in place, not allowing his teammate to fall. Carefully, he starts moving them towards the door.

"You did that on purpose," Clark accuses. When Bruce opens his mouth to object, Clark interrupts, "Don't lie, Bruce. It's not like you didn't know it was there, sneaking up on you. You just wanted me to get up. But I won't have you risking your life just to prove a point."

"It worked."

"It worked?" Clark's voice is incredulous— _but getting stronger_ —as they slowly pass through the door to the hanger bay and into the hallway, where the rest of the team is gathered in stunned silence. "What if it hadn't?" Superman continues, ignoring the excited exclamations of his teammates who are now pressing around, touching him. He only has admonishing eyes for his partner. "You know, there's something really wrong with you…"

The artifice, the props, the costumes. The flirtations with death. The resurrections and reinventions—the questions, always the questions. What happened? He was dead…how did he—? Why Batman? Are they _friends?_ Are they… _more than friends?_ The outsiders—they will only ever know pieces to the puzzle. Some will hold more pieces than others, but never the full picture—never that.

They will never know that on a late evening in June, many years before, two future heroes met as teenagers at a charity function in Metropolis under the crafty gaze of Lex Luthor, a man who, at that time, was still something of a friend to both. It was Clark Kent's sixteenth birthday—really only the anniversary of his arrival on this planet—and Bruce Wayne, incredibly gifted, sole legatee of an international conglomerate, himself only eighteen years-old, saw something in Clark that caught his restless eye, something that he recognized, something innocent. Something that called to him through the shadows of his discontent—though they were complete strangers.

They will never know anything of that hour's conversation, that impetuous embrace—another random intersection on the parallel course of two young men destined to be friends, enemies, lovers, brothers-in-arms, the world's finest heroes. Two young men colliding on the cusp of change, then going their separate ways, one back to Smallville to continue growing up, discovering his heritage, testing the limits of his power, and the other back to Gotham to try to figure out how one man can make a difference in the city that had killed his parents, that had taken from him everything that mattered when he had been too young to fight back.

How can they ever understand how quickly a year passed for the two of them? How they crashed together again, so like stars; how Bruce Wayne found himself in Metropolis, enrolled in the police academy. He had his own apartment, and a small circle of friends. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered Clark Kent, but it was a distrait memory, stylized, frozen in time. He never thought he would see the young man again. Until one night, at a club called _Atlantis_...he did.

What would an outsider ever know of that kind of glittering—the dark aching, the longing that can only be adequately expressed at the extremes, on the edge, on the very verge of a heightened and unhinged world?


	2. Remembering Your Mouth

**I. Remembering Your Mouth**

 _…maybe you didn't know  
how before I loved you I forgot your kisses.  
But my heart went on, remembering your mouth—and I  
went on and on through the streets like a man wounded  
until I understood…_

+

 _Tonight…at Club Atlantis…in Metropolis…_

"Loosen up, Bruce," Harvey Dent whispered in his ear as the music pounded, shaking him a little with the casual arm that was draped across his shoulders. As if shaking him would cause another personality to manifest, the way shaking one of those small plastic globes could turn a calm scene into one riddled with snow. "You're supposed to be having a good time."

"I am."

"Why don't you dance, then?"

Bruce moved one shoulder, up fractionally, down. "I don't dance."

Harvey sighed in that dramatic way that said Bruce was trying his patience. "Everyone dances, Bruce. Look around. Do you see anyone trying to be Fred Astaire?"

Bruce Wayne swept a disinterested gaze across the crowd, a crowd that was gyrating and undulating madly on the dance floor of _Atlantis,_ the most popular nightclub in Metropolis. He had to admit, no one was really doing anything particularly elaborate. There were too many people in the dark, smoky club to allow anyone to do much more than jump in place or bump and grind in sharp, heated movements. Bruce pursed his lips, conceding the point. "You could go dance," he told his friend. "It's your party. You don't have to sit here keeping me company."

Harvey flung himself back in the booth in that overly animated way of his that made him such a popular figure around campus. "Bruce," he sighed again, "can you _try_ to act like a normal nineteen-year-old? I didn't bring you here—and go through all the trouble to get you in—" he reminded, "just to have you waste time sitting over here by yourself. Go find yourself a girl, feel her up in a dark corner; promise to call when you have no intention of ever doing so. Live a little, my friend."

"I think you live enough for the both of us, Harvey." Bruce took a sip from his glass of soda. Although he was sure he could get someone to serve him alcohol even though he was underage, he didn't bother. He was a new recruit at the police academy, and breaking one law a night to get into a nightclub for people over twenty-one was really his limit.

"You know," Harvey continued, "I understand you're a genius and all, and us mere mortals could never understand what it takes to finish Princeton in two years, but believe me when I tell you, you're letting the best years of your life pass you by."

"Go dance, Harvey."

Harvey bit his lip, smirked. "Fine, I will."

Bruce smiled as his friend shimmied out of the booth and made his way, whooping and hollering, to the middle of the crowded dance floor and over to the group of friends that had accompanied them to the club to celebrate Harvey's graduation from Princeton and the impending start of his law school education in Metropolis. Really, they were all Harvey's friends, his contemporaries from his graduating year. Bruce was acquainted with them because they had all been at Princeton at the same time, but they were Harvey's age—twenty-one—and since Bruce had graduated early, he had had little time to make meaningful connections with anyone other than Harvey. Harvey who had been assigned to him as a mentor, who hailed from the same city and shared the same desire to one day return and make a difference. It was only the fact that Bruce happened to be in Metropolis where Harvey just settled in to attend law school that had caused him to be out with the group at all. Though he was two years Harvey's junior, Bruce considered him a good friend—maybe his best friend—and likely the only one who could convince him to waste an evening packed like a sardine in a loud, hot nightclub instead of at his apartment studying for the written exam on police regulations he had to take on Monday.

After about twenty minutes, Harvey returned with two girls, a blond and a brunette, one under each arm, but when Bruce failed to engage the young ladies in any meaningful way, the two girls made their excuses to head to the bathroom, and simply failed to return. Harvey was sweat-soaked, with his brown hair plastered to his head, but still he managed an exasperated groan. He dropped his head on the table, hitting his forehead against the plastic tabletop and leaving a wet spot.

"One day, Bruce," he said, looking up, "you're going to meet the perfect person for you and you're not going to know your ass from your elbow because you refuse to engage in _normal human interaction."_ Harvey began waving his hands above his head. Bruce couldn't help but chuckle at his friend's antics. Harvey was going to make a great trial lawyer; he had so much life and enthusiasm, and cared so very much.

Bruce raised an eyebrow disdainfully. "They were high."

 _"So?_ That only means that they were _loose_ women," Harvey waggled his eyebrows comically, "and the battle was half won."

"I'm a police officer."

Harvey scoffed. "You're a police academy recruit—why, I don't know. How do you turn down admission to Yale medical school to enroll in the police academy? And in Metropolis?" Harvey shook his head.

Bruce picked up his glass again and shrugged. "Gotham was out. My name is too well known there, and the police force is completely corrupt."

"I know," Harvey agreed, shaking his head. "I heard about the Falcone family." He slapped his hand against the table, making Bruce's glass of half-finished soda tilt alarmingly. "But still, _Yale Medical..."_

"You know it's about more than that."

"Bruce, you know I understand, better than anyone, but I would hardly be a friend if I didn't raise an eyebrow. Law enforcement is an unusual choice for you, given your social status. How about law school? You could take a year off and apply. You'd still be miles ahead of everyone—"

"I need to _do_ something, Harvey, something real. I've been in school long enough."

"Long enough? Damn, Bruce, you're a nut." Harvey was silent for a moment, studying him. "But you're my nut. Most people would think you're crazy for wanting to risk your life every day when you're richer than God. But if it's what you think you have to do, you have my support, one hundred percent."

Bruce smiled at his friend. He could always count on Harvey to _understand._ He was lucky to have such a person in his life, lucky that they were both in Metropolis at the same time. Fortunate that they were still close enough, that their friendship hadn't faded in the year since Bruce had graduated and gone back to Gotham and Harvey had still been in school, finishing out his senior year.

It was the height of the night. The club had stopped letting new people in and the music had changed into a never ending loop of hardcore electronic dance beats that caused the entire place to vibrate and made it entirely too difficult to continue holding a normal conversation. Instead, Bruce waved Harvey off as his friend moved to return to the tumult and merely sat back further in his booth and observed the crowd as one would a new, but somewhat less than exciting variety of fungus. As his gaze swept over the pulsating mass of strangers and came to rest on a group of people standing in the blue-tinted shadows, he realized there was actually someone standing by the bar that he recognized.

Clark Kent...the young man from Smallville he had met last year with Lex Luthor. _Clark Kent._ The aspiring journalist who Luthor laid claim to, who had been such an obvious innocent caught in Luthor's web...the sixteen-year-old he had kissed in a complete lapse of good sense, and whose blue eyes had haunted him, asleep, awake, for weeks thereafter. The name sent a frisson of electricity up his spine. What was Clark doing here? Surely he was too young—

Pulled by an invisible thread that seemed to tug at him insistently, despite the voice in the back of his head that told him it made more _sense_ to _wait…watch,_ Bruce got up out of his seat and started weaving across the club and towards the bar, mumbling apologies to anyone he had to push out of the way. He was trying to keep Clark in his line of sight, and the crazy way people keep careening into his path wasn't helping.

In flashes, in between the press of bodies, he could see how much older Clark looked in his black leather jacket, as if he had developed a confidence far beyond his years. He seemed to stand out in the midst of satellites that crowded around him, taller, edgier, skin pale and almost luminescent in the dim light. Like a slide show or one of those old silent movies on a film reel, Bruce caught glimpses of Clark as he smirked, leaned over and grabbed the ass of the tall brunette at his side, buried his face in her neck. The utter lack of any self-consciousness, the oblivious possessiveness, the cavalier way Clark simply pressed the girl to the bar counter—smothered all her struggles—stopped Bruce dead in his tracks. Someone bumped into him from behind, but all he could do was watch.

It was then that Clark stilled and lifted his head. He held the girl immobile with one hand as he looked around, as if the fact that someone was watching him rang some internal bell. Their eyes met for a split second across the crowded room, locked momentarily, until another dancing body impeded line of sight.

Bruce turned abruptly, moving towards the door to the club with his hands fisted at his sides. His chest heaved as he tried to pull in breath. He felt like a ton of bricks had been dropped on his head. He recognized the cruelty, the cracked despair in those sky blue eyes immediately—the type of cruelty and self-loathing that roots in the eyes of people who live on the edge, who care too little for other people. Bruce refused to examine too closely exactly what it was about that look in Clark's eyes that made his hands clench, made his throat tighten in anger and disappointment, except the obvious proof that the kid had already been spoiled, lost. There was nothing left of the innocent, happy young man he had met last year, who quoted his father's platitudes with such guilelessness—and the proof of it disgusted him.

 _Damn Lex Luthor,_ Bruce swore silently. It didn't matter that Lex had recently been presumed dead after his private jet crashed in the Pacific Ocean on the way to his supposed honeymoon. Clearly, his death hadn't come soon enough to spare Clark the consequences of his influence.

Behind him, Bruce heard the start of a ruckus and briefly looked back, hoping Harvey had enough sense to stay clear of the turbulence. He saw Clark was in the middle of it all, and that it probably had something to do with the girl he'd been molesting. The front door was in sight, however, and as the crowd started to stampede towards the exits, Bruce was just glad to be spared the problem of being caught in the rush.

He ran a hand through his hair, telling himself to calm down. It was ridiculous to think Clark would be the same innocent teen he had met a year ago. Young people grew up fast these days, especially young men who counted Luthor as their best friend. There were no white hearts around Lex Luthor, only hearts waiting to be stained as black as his own.

Bruce stopped on the sidewalk outside the club, in the balmy night air, waiting for Harvey who had been the one to drive them all to this place. People were exiting the club in droves, and as the first two police cars pulled up, Bruce faded a little further into the shadows of the adjacent alley, disinclined to be caught frequenting a club he had no business in by officers he might one day have to work with. He was busy watching the crowd for his friends, which might have been the reason the sound of his name made him jump.

"Bruce Wayne."

Clark Kent was in the alley behind him, partially hidden by shadows. A quick, startled look confirmed a back entrance to the club that he must have used. Up close, Clark looked so different from the beautiful young man in his new suit and slippery, shiny shoes that Bruce had met last year —the difference took his breath away. This Clark Kent was all angles and sharp edges—a dangerous beauty that would leave a person cut and bleeding on the floor. His hair was longer; it fell into blue eyes darkened by nighttime shadows. Those eyes squinted at him speculatively at the lack of a response, but for the life of him, Bruce couldn't find the words to say hello.

"You don't remember me."

Bruce licked his lips. "I remember you...Clark."

Clark smiled, but it was somewhat cold around the edges and certainly didn't reach his eyes. "That's...good to know." He reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket. Bruce heard the jingle of keys. "Are you my guardian angel, destined to appear once a year on my birthday?"

"Your birthday...?"

"Yet again."

"I . . ."

"What are you doing here anyway?" Clark said. Even his voice was lower, more confident, stylized, none of the hesitant, bashful farmboy intonation that Bruce had found so endearing in their previous encounter. "Lex said—" Clark froze, seemed to struggle somewhat with what he wanted to say.

"I'm sorry about Lex," Bruce said quickly, into the quiet between them. "He was too young to die."

"He's not dead," Clark snarled. "They just haven't found him yet."

Bruce was taken aback by the vehemence of Clark's response. Perhaps this explained the young man's drastic change. It was difficult to lose a friend so tragically, so unexpectedly, especially when you wouldn't believe that the person was dead. Who knew how close the two of them had gotten in the past year? The thought made Bruce shift his feet uncomfortably.

"I didn't mean—look, I'm just sorry, okay? I hope they find him soon." Bruce glanced over at the milling crowd, once again trying to spot Harvey.

When he returned his attention to Clark, he was shocked to find the young man standing even closer than before, close enough to touch.

"Are you here with someone?" Clark asked, in a low voice. In the past year, Clark had grown a few inches. He was now about an inch taller than Bruce, and the little bit Bruce had to tilt his head to look up into Clark's eyes, eyes that held him in sharp, predatory appraisal, started a spiraling tightness in his stomach that rose to his chest, a strange feeling that felt something like fear but was _not_ fear.

"Some friends." Bruce licked his lips, tried to relieve some of the dryness that made his throat feel like sandpaper.

"How'd you get in? You're too young."

"Money, a few connections." Bruce tried to laugh it off, but Clark had moved closer, and the gleam in his eyes, frankly, made Bruce nervous. "How did you get in?" Bruce asked, instead. "You're younger than me."

Clark frowned darkly. "They couldn't keep me out if they wanted to."

Again, Bruce glanced quickly to the side, looking for Harvey and an excuse to extricate himself from a situation that was seeped in tension.

"Your friends—" Clark's voice was now close to his ear, "they must be important."

Bruce took a step back. "Uh...yeah."

Clark nodded. A hand reached out to Bruce's collar and fingers started playing with the silver button that secured the top of his shirt. "How long are you in Metropolis?"

Though Bruce would have preferred to keep his business to himself, he could think of no reason to be actively rude. "A while," he answered, slowly. "I'm enrolled at the police academy."

"The police academy?" Clark said, genuine surprise coloring his tone. "Lex said Yale medical school or business school, maybe."

"Well, Lex doesn't know everything," Bruce snapped, and was immediately sorry to have forgotten that Lex wasn't in a position to know anything at all anymore. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, but the dangerous glint in Clark's eyes clearly said he wasn't forgiven for the slip.

Finally, he saw Harvey in the distance. "My friends," he said, nodding in their direction. Clark glanced over, studied his friends for a moment, two. "I have to go—"

But now Clark's hand, like a vise grip, was holding his arm, preventing his escape. Bruce thought he'd surely have bruises tomorrow, and the likelihood pissed him off. "Listen—" he said hotly, tugging his arm, trying to get Clark to release him.

"You're here with that pretty boy?" Clark interrupted, nodding in Harvey's direction.

Bruce forgot his struggle for a moment and looked over at Harvey, who had just noticed him standing in the shadows of the alley with Clark and was stepping towards them.

"We're not—"

"But you want to," Clark said, in a low voice. "I can tell. But before he gets to run off with my guardian angel, I think you owe me a birthday present."

In what seemed to Bruce to be slow motion, Clark tugged, and he stumbled forward. Strong arms swept him up. "A kiss," Clark said. "It's our tradition." Clark's lips captured his own, and for the second time in Bruce's life, everything stopped, but this time, he had no control over the escalating passion, no control over the kiss at all. He was devoured, consumed, blown apart in an exchange of breath that seemed to scatter his soul to the four winds. When Clark pulled back, Bruce was dazed, speechless. Clark's bottomless eyes were studying his face, laughter in their depths. The smug contemplation woke Bruce from his stupor and riled his anger. He succeeded in pushing Clark away.

"Why did you do that?" Bruce asked, angry.

"You looked like you needed it, and it is my birthday." Clark's smile had that cruel twist that Bruce was very used to seeing on Lex's face. The sight of it made him sick. Once again, Clark was in his personal space, and somehow, he had moved the two of them three steps to the side of the building. Now, Bruce was pressed up against the wall. He glared daggers at Clark. If Clark wanted to be an asshole, he wouldn't give him the pleasure of struggling.

"This way," Clark continued, "when you're playing with your pretty boy over there," a finger trailed across his lips, a cheekbone, a heavy hand buried itself in his hair, "you'll have some relevant _experience_ to fall back on." Clark captured his lips again, as suddenly as before, and though he was beyond angry, Bruce found he couldn't help but respond.

Just as suddenly, Clark released him and stepped back.

 _"Bruce?"_ Harvey was standing on the sidewalk at the top of the alley, staring at him in open-mouthed shock. "What the...?"

Clark smirked, and Bruce could see him taking all of Harvey in, in one distasteful swallow. He wasn't sure what instinct warned him, but he moved quickly to place himself between Harvey and Clark, all the while wondering at this utterly surreal turn of events. He should be home in his apartment, preparing for his exam. Not having a bizarre interlude with a sixteen— _seventeen_ —year-old kid who manhandled people like they were his own personal property. And Harvey—now he would have to explain that, yes, he liked guys, and girls, and, no, he wasn't fucked up because of it. The night was turning into a nightmare.

"Harvey, this is a friend of mine. Could you give us a minute? I'll be right over."

"Yeah, _Harvey,"_ Clark repeated snidely, "give us a minute, why don’t you. I'll send him back only slightly used."

Bruce winced. "Clark, stop it," he snarled, turning on Clark as Harvey shrugged and backed away. "That was unnecessary."

Clark smiled. It managed to reach his eyes this time, and Bruce saw the vaguest hint of the boy he had known. He wondered if, perhaps, Clark was on drugs and needed help. It would explain his outrageous behavior.

But it was so hard to think. Again, Clark had scooped him up and pressed him to the wall. In the sticky summer air, with the night like a blanket, smothering his senses, Bruce couldn't seem to do anything but respond to the lips that demanded entrance to his mouth, stole his breath. The teeth that bit down hard on his lip, drawing blood. The pain only heightened his senses. He came up rock hard in the face of it.

Clark pulled away, chuckled. "He's pretty," he said of Harvey, "but not pretty enough for you."

Blinking, Bruce stayed leaning against the wall as Clark retreated, nursing his lower lip, dazed and more than a little bit confused. How had a boy—the innocent boy he had met only a year ago—turn into this...this... _predator?_

Eyebrows lost themselves in his hairline as he realized that Clark had retrieved a motorcycle from the depths of the alley. Clark maneuvered it into the light, and Bruce was shocked and impressed to note that it was a black, red and silver late model Suzuki Hayabusa. His mind immediately supplied all the relevant details: 4-stroke, 4-cylinder, 6-speed transmission, top speed 206 miles per hour—a kick ass machine. The cost to own one ungodly. He stared at Clark in amazement.

"Where did you get that?"

"Don't worry about it, angel. Get on."

 _"Get on?"_

"Did I stutter?"

Bruce looked at Clark like he was crazy, and for all he knew, maybe the kid was. "I'm not getting on that bike with you."

Clark nodded slowly. "Are you sure, _Bruce?"_ His tone was lightly mocking and that smirk was back in place. "You won't get another chance."

"I think I'll live," Bruce said, voice dry.

Clark turned the ignition, and with a loud roar, coasted out of the alley without looking back once. He wasn't even wearing a helmet.

Frozen in place, Bruce watched as Clark stopped his bike in front of the club, picked out a blond from the crowd that was still milling about lazily, a girl who seemed very happy to jump up behind Clark and wrap her arms around him. The two of them roared away down the street—and still, Clark didn't look back.

With a pervasive sense of what, in his own mind, he termed _unease,_ Bruce started walking towards the crowd to locate Harvey and his ride home.


	3. Between the Shadow and the Soul

**II. Between the Shadow and the Soul**

_I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_  
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.  
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

+

_Later that night…at a penthouse…in Metropolis…_

Harvey Dent had always been somewhat overprotective of Bruce Wayne, ever since the son of Gotham City's first family had been assigned to him as part of freshman orientation at the beginning of Bruce's meteoric stay at Princeton. Perhaps it was the tragedy—everyone in Gotham remembered where they had been on the day the news broke about the shooting of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Harvey had been only eleven years old, but he could recall, so distinctly, the tears in his mother's eyes that night as they watched the eight o'clock news and the reporters who followed the events at the hospital, where Dr. Thomas Wayne was pronounced dead on arrival and Martha Wayne lingered until morning. His parents had let him stay up until midnight, on the off chance that some good news would come out, even though he had school the next day. It was…a night you'd never forget—if you were from Gotham.

Perhaps it was the eyes—so blue, so serious—that settled on him and took his measure, eyes that told a story older than Bruce's sixteen years. Harvey wasn't one to dwell. Suffice to say, the two of them hit it off immediately…and Harvey had been running interference for Bruce Wayne ever since. Not that Bruce needed his protection exactly. Everyone on the yard knew who he was, that he was upper crust, richer than God—Bruce was well liked in the casual way inoffensive prodigies were often tolerated at Princeton by the older set. Bruce was popular but _young,_ and if people weren't simply ignoring him on principle, they were trying to get their hooks in him before he'd know any better. That's where Harvey came in. He managed Bruce's sorry excuse for a social life, made sure he got out occasionally, that he belonged to the right fraternity, the right clubs, that he stayed away from the sluts and the drugs, and provided advice and a willing ear on the rare occasions Bruce lifted his head out of a book and wanted to talk about his master plan for changing Gotham.

That's why Harvey was camped out on Bruce's sofa at two in the morning, in the plush penthouse with the spectacular view of the Metropolis skyline, with a bottle of peppermint Schnapps in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other.

"Okay, spill," he ordered, around bites.

Bruce was sitting on the floor, absently picking the pineapples off of his slice of pizza. His shoes were over at the door, and the top button of his shirt was undone. He seemed relaxed, but the question caused him to raise his head, and the look in his eyes became guarded. "Spill…?"

Harvey took a swig from his bottle then burped loudly, causing Bruce to make a face. Harvey grinned, completely unrepentant. "Don't play dumb with me, Bruce," he said. "The guy. At the club. The one who had you pinned to the wall with his tongue down your throat." Harvey couldn't help chuckling at the consternation that descended over Bruce's face like a dark cloud. "I didn't think I'd ever live to see the day that Bruce Wayne did anything as _vulgar_ as making out in an alley," he continued, leering and raising an eyebrow speculatively. "You didn't think I'd let you get away without an explanation?"

As expected, the response he received was short, clipped. "We weren't making out."

Harvey snapped his fingers, pointed at Bruce as if he'd just said something insightful. "Right." He let the word drag. "You weren't making out. You were being molested by a gorgeous smartass in a leather jacket who practically took my head off for talking to you."

"Harvey…"

Harvey set his bottle on the coffee table and fell back onto the sofa, laughing. "Don't growl, Bruce. You're entirely too appealing when your dander's up, and now that I know you swing both ways…I do have a reputation to maintain, you know." Harvey waved a hand floridly. "Lady's man, man's man—"

Bruce snagged a magazine off the table, threw it at his head. "Ouch—okay—just tell me about him. I've seen the kid around the club before. I'm surprised you know him. He doesn't seem to be your...type—do you have a type? I always thought you were celibate, except for that whole situation with Marcy…"

Another magazine. This one almost took out an eye. "Ouch—okay, I'll stop."

Bruce was silent. Harvey had learned to simply wait him out. Bruce would say what he would say—or not, as the mood struck him. He watched his friend make short work of another slice of pizza, wash it down with a long drink of water. He folded his legs and looked at Harvey steadily, as if resigned to some unpleasant task.

"I met him last summer at the alumni reception at the Metropolis Princeton Club," Bruce said. "He was with Lex Luthor."

"Ah…" Harvey replied, as if Bruce had just explained everything. "Sad thing, that. About Lex. How long do you think his father's going to postpone the funeral?"

"At least until they stop the search," Bruce said. "Victoria told me Lionel doesn't believe he's dead."

"Victoria? When did you—? Never mind. Stop trying to change the subject." Harvey yawned.

"I wasn't—"

"Just go back to the original question—"

Bruce bristled. "I'm not a criminal, and you're not a lawyer yet, Harvey—"

Again, Harvey yawned. There was no way he was making it home tonight. "Bruce, don't make me get up. I know kung-fu."

Bruce frowned. "Fine. He was a kid Lex brought to the alumni function. I met him there. Simple."

Apparently, this was going to take a bit of coercion. Harvey propped himself up on one arm. "Do you think I'm daft?" he asked, facetiously. "Funny, they said I graduated at the top of my class, but perhaps I'm as stupid as you apparently think I am. Come on, Bruce. You don't end up making out with some stranger in an alley—well, _I_ do, but _you_ don't—and expect me to believe there's nothing more to the story."

Bruce got up from the floor, stalked to the light switch and dimmed the overhead lights, for which Harvey was very grateful, even though the tension and obvious exasperation on Bruce's part was enough to make Harvey worry. Before tonight, Harvey would have bet money there was nothing short of a conversation about his parents or his plans to gut Gotham's underworld that could get Bruce The Unflappable worked up to this extent.

"He's just a kid from a farm in Smallville," Bruce said, over a shoulder. "His name is Clark. Lex had his claws in him, so when Lex started in with his usual crap, I spent some time talking to him, warning him about Lex as a way to even the scales."

"The scales." Harvey nodded his head, pursed his lips. "So you were dispensing justice by subverting Lex's conquest?"

Bruce froze, stared at him open-mouthed. "He wasn't—I wasn't—"

"Oh, _boy._ This is fun."

Bruce scowled, threw himself on the floor. "You're drunk."

"That I am, Brucie, my boy, but that doesn't detract one iota from my amusement at finally seeing you flustered. So what did you do—steal the boy away to spite Lex? And how old is he, anyway?"

Bruce huffed. "I didn't steal anything…I just…kissed him once…okay, a few times." Bruce shrugged. "Lex interrupted, had a fit. It was all very gratifying, to see Lex up in arms, if you must know. And he's sixteen—seventeen—now." Bruce paused. "It's his birthday today. Yesterday."

"His birthday. Of course." Harvey smirked. He couldn't help himself. "Who would have guessed Bruce Wayne plays the same games as the rest of us plebs? Wait until I tell the guys—"

"Don't."

"Come on, Bruce," Harvey chortled. "You have to admit this is hysterical." He threw up his hands, created a frame. "Bruce Wayne takes up with male bad boy jailbait – news at eleven. The gossip columnists will have a field day, let alone the guys at the frat. I always knew you had a wild streak, like one of those virgin freshman girls straight out of Catholic school…"

"Okay, stop."

"But—"

"Stop."

Harvey coughed, tried to stop grinning. It was hard.

"I don't even know what he's doing here," Bruce said, consternation clear on his face. "He was a completely different kid last summer. Sweet, innocent, open, honest. I talked to him for an hour. He was…totally different." Bruce paused. "I think he's in trouble."

Harvey sat up straighter. While the situation was funny, he didn't want Bruce to get it in his head that the kid needed his _help_ —that was simply out of the question. "That kid is trouble, Bruce. I've seen him around the club. He's always fighting, drinking, causing problems—but he has _carte blanche,_ and I think he works for Morgan Edge, the gangster who owns the place, or so I've heard. Edge and his crew are into drugs big time. The kid might be nice to look at but you should stay away from him. He's way out of your league."

Bruce scoffed. He had acquired another slice of pizza to pick at, but this time it looked as if he had no intention of eating it. "I wasn't aware I had a league."

"An innocent blue blood like yourself with his nose in a book most of the time? You certainly have a league, and it doesn't include a kid like that." Harvey yawned. "Trust me."

"I thought you were drunk."

"I am." Harvey sank back down into the cushions, threw an arm over his eyes. "But I'm a trustworthy drunk. I think I'll sleep here. Find me a cover and a pillow, will you?"

"There's a perfectly good bed in the bedroom."

Harvey raised his arm, caught Bruce's gaze…quirked an eyebrow. "Your room?"

"The guest room, asshole. You really are drunk."

"Comfortable here," Harvey sighed. "Pillow. Blanket. Chop, chop."

A few minutes later, a pillow and a blanket landed on his chest, along with one of Bruce's t-shirts which Harvey took a moment to wriggle into. Bruce turned out the overhead lights.

"Sweet dreams, Casanova," Harvey called out, "sweet dreams of your jailbait on that kickass motorcycle." Harvey turned over, arranging his pillow. "Seventeen," he mumbled, then added, louder, "that kid's trouble, Bruce…to have a motorcycle like that…"

+

Clark's face materialized in his mind's eye as Bruce closed the door to his bedroom, and all the emotions he had suppressed for the past hour while he'd had to entertain Harvey washed over him in waves. Such a feeling of…anticipation pricked his skin, settled in the pit of his stomach. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt, telling himself to stop being stupid, employing the same mental upbraiding he had used the first time he'd met Clark Kent and had returned to Gotham, unable to wipe the look of him, the feel of him from his memory. Too young, he told himself. Too different, too far away, too innocent, too—

What a difference a year made. Clark was no longer innocent, no longer far away. He wasn't even all that different, not anymore, and he certainly wasn't as young as he had been just a year ago—time had answered every objection, and all Bruce was left with was—what?

 _Nothing._ Stupid. Bruce walked over to the windows, pulled back the curtains, dug his hands into the pockets of his pants as he studied the late night sky. This was simply a surprising distraction, something he had no time for. Messing around with some kid who was obviously in over his head…perhaps it had something to do with Lex after all. Maybe losing a friend so suddenly was causing Clark to act out, and perhaps all he needed was…someone to talk to. Bruce was very familiar with the pain, the changes that could be wrought in a person by the tragic death of someone close…

Still, it was none of his business. It wasn't as if he _owed_ Clark Kent _anything._

He had an exam on Monday. As he turned away from the windows and headed into his en suite to shower and change, he was satisfied with his decision. He had no time for Clark's problems, whatever they might be. The water was blissfully hot as it hit his neck and shoulders, as he washed the stink of cigarette smoke from his hair. He performed his quick ablutions. If he couldn't quite wash away the feeling of being pushed up against a dirty wall in a backstreet alley; if there wasn't quite enough steam in the shower to mask the ghosting of hands that gripped his shoulders, holding him still, handling him deftly; if the impact of water against his face and head wasn't quite enough to make him forget the feel of lips against his lips, of fingers gripping his hair—maybe it was just a temporary lapse of concentration, one he could rectify in the morning.

It seemed tonight was reserved for his imagination, and his senses, and his own hands that touched himself with the memory of the way Clark looked, the way he tasted, the way he smelled. How the enigmatic young man seemed to look right through him with eyes that wanted him, but only on his own terms.

Bruce fell asleep that night like he was diving into deep water, and what he dreamed, what caused him to wake up in the morning with sticky sheets and in need of another shower, only served to prove that he needed to forget all about Clark Kent.


	4. A Certain Solid Fragrance

**III. A Certain Solid Fragrance**

 _I love you as the plant that never blooms  
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;  
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,  
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body._

+

 _Meanwhile…at the Metropolis Docks…_

"Where are we going _now?"_ came a loud voice, whining right in his ear, an ear that was far too sensitive to tolerate such an immoderate tone in such close proximity. "I thought we were going to your place?"

Clark Kent had no idea what her name was—the blond who was sitting behind him on his bike as he made a slow turn onto a dark street down by the old Metropolis docks. Frankly, he didn't care. She was beginning to annoy him, though.

"Shut up," he said, over his shoulder.

Her voice turned shrill. "Shut up. _Shut up?_ Listen, I'm not one of those girls you can just—"

Clark stopped the motorcycle on its front wheel, causing the tail end to rise up and throwing his "date" violently backwards and then forwards. She gripped him tightly, fearfully, as he pulled over to the curb by an abandoned car, under a broken streetlight.

"Get off."

 _"Get off?"_

"Get off, and go home," he said, bored with her dramatics. He had work to do, and the girl's constant complaining was becoming an unwelcome distraction.

"But— _you're not leaving me here?!"_

Clark refused to look at her. "Get off my bike now before I dump you off."

"Oh, my _God,"_ the girl huffed as she struggled to pull her skinny leg over the machine, "you are such a _jerk._ How am I going to get home from here?"

"Your problem," Clark said, dismissively, as he revved his motorcycle and tore away from the curb and the girl who had seemed like a reasonable substitute when he picked her up in front of the club—

A substitute, when what he had really wanted was Bruce Wayne.

Clark was not accustomed to having his wants and desires thwarted, at least, not since he had put on the class ring with the stone made from red Kryptonite and the true extent of his power, what his special abilities entitled him to, became so crystal clear. He could have anything he wanted. Anything. _Anyone._ He should never have let Bruce Wayne walk away. Next time—

Next time.

Coasting past quiescent machinery that was used in the daylight hours to load and unload containers from the few freight ships still using the oldest docks in Metropolis, Clark pulled up to the side entrance of a block-long warehouse at the base of pier sixty-three. The area was eerily deserted, and the darkness and the fog that drifted in from off the water would have been enough to cause anyone to pause, but not Clark. He used his x-ray vision to scan the building to ensure that no one was trying to double cross him before he killed the engine and walked to the loading gate, banging on it loudly.

"Kal," the mealy-mouthed, low-level underling acknowledged, as he pulled up the gate just enough for Clark to duck under.

Clark almost laughed out loud at the use of his Kryptonian name. Kal. Kal-El. Sent to Earth to save them, to rule them all. His birth father, Jor-El, would have been so proud he was finally embracing his "destiny." He snorted.

"We were expecting you earlier."

"I was busy." Clark entered the cavernous confines of the receiving facility with its rows upon rows of shipping crates waiting to clear customs. "Where's your boss?"

The man sucked his teeth around the toothpick in his mouth and made a vague gesture. "In the back, in the office."

Artwork, stolen antiquities, chopped up vehicle parts, drugs lining the insides of cheap children's toys—Clark's x-ray vision cataloged it all as he made a slow circuit around the wooden boxes that went on and on for as far as the eye could see. He wanted to know everything about the dealings of Morgan Edge, the gangster he was working for, and of Intergang, the man's organized crime syndicate that controlled the underworld in Metropolis. You could never know when a stray piece of information would come in handy, and Clark intended to stay ahead of the game.

Morgan Edge, gray liberally peppering his blond hair though he was no older than Lex's father Lionel Luthor, was in the large, functional office, seated behind a wooden desk and talking on the phone when Clark entered. For a man engaged in all manner of illegal activity, he looked not so much different from Lionel, or Lex, even, with his impeccable grooming, artful glasses and expensive business suit. Perhaps more telling, Edge had that same air of confidence, of entitlement, that the Luthors exhibited. Clearly, the accouterments of legal and illegal "business" were fruits plucked from the same tree.

The two bodyguards, one brown-skinned and bald, the other with shoulder-length hair and a tattoo in the shape of an elaborate crucifix that covered half of his face, were immediately at Clark's side, patting him down before he was given permission to approach. Clark walked to within two feet of the desk and tossed his package on the top as Edge hung up the phone.

"So, Kal, another successful run," Edge said, with a slow, speculative appraisal. He started unwrapping the package, his manicured fingers tripping over themselves as he worked the bindings free. He held his most recent acquisition up to the light, inspecting the precious stones worked into the outer shell. "I'd ask how you did it without any back up," he looked over at Clark, raised an eyebrow, "but maybe I don't want to know? After all, the results are really all that count." Edge chuckled lowly. "And you do produce _excellent_ results. Did you have any problem with the vault?"

Clark made a disdainful noise low in his throat. "What do you think?" He was bored with this Morgan Edge clown. He wouldn't have bothered working for him at all—with his abilities, Clark hardly needed a sponsor—except Edge had the one thing that Clark _did_ need: Edge had the ability to set him up with a new identity, a real, legitimate identity that could withstand official scrutiny, with a new social security number, driver's license, the works. The Kents were looking for him, would likely never stop looking for him. The city's number one gangster could ensure that he'd never have to worry about his old life again.

"I think the reports on you, Kal, are beyond belief." Edge picked up a newspaper from a stack of mail by the computer, a copy of the day's _Daily Planet_ with the headline emblazoned across the front of it— _Masked Man Continues to Rampage Metropolis!_ —and dropped it on the middle of the desk. "I can see how you get into the bank—anyone can walk into a bank to rob it—but how do you get into the vault so quickly with no tools, no crew?" Edge drummed his fingers on the desk. "And how do you manage to get away from the scene unscathed?" His finger tapped the newspaper, on top of an insert picture of a police officer holding up a black, bullet riddled facemask—the one Clark had dropped on the sidewalk as he made his escape. "Are you man, or are you myth, son?"

 _Fear not, Kal-El. I am Jor-El, your father._

Clark blinked, growled low, scornfully. "I'm not your son."

"Figure of speech, Kal. Don't get your hackles up. I'm just…" blue eyes sparkled dangerously behind glasses, "curious about you."

"You're used to working with clowns," Clark said in a dry voice as he nodded towards the bodyguards who were now glaring at him. "I'm in a whole different league."

"Yes," Edge agreed slowly. "Quite a different league. Efficient and discreet—a remarkable combination in one so young." He chuckled to himself as if some inside joke amused him. The cell phone in his suit pocket began to ring, loudly insistent, signaling that they were out of time. "Go to Larry," Edge said with a wave of a hand. "He'll give you your cut."

"I already took my cut."

Clark watched with amusement as the gangster stilled, ringing phone now forgotten. "You…already took your cut. From _my_ haul." Edge's flat displeasure hung in the air like a miasma. "Kid, you have balls," Edge said slowly, "but don't push it. I've been very generous with you—gave you the apartment, free reign at the club; I throw you work so you can earn your way—it would be a terrible mistake on your part to bite the hand that feeds you." Those blue eyes were now hard as agates.

"It's lonely for a country boy without friends on the streets of Metropolis."

Clark raised an eyebrow, scoffed lightly; stuck a hand in the pocket of his black leather jacket, feeling for his keys. "Right. I think I have the lonely country boy thing under control," he said. "From now on, anything I do for you, my cut comes off the top. No middlemen. You can think of me as an independent agent."

Edge leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of incredulity, then got to his feet. His hand reached under his jacket for the gun in his shoulder holster. "An…independent agent…kid, where do you get off—"

Clark was across the room with his forearm to Edge's throat before the gangster could finish that movement. The gun fell to the floor with a loud noise. Clark used his free hand to knock the bodyguards who were pulling at him, trying to back him off of their boss, across the room. They went flying, landing in a heap of boxes and overturned chairs by the office door.

"You don't know what I'm capable of."

Eyes gleamed at him through the tension.

"Oh, I think I do. You're a very…resourceful young man."

"Uniquely resourceful," Clark agreed. "In fact, I think I can say you'll never find anyone on this planet who's as resourceful."

The eyes behind the glasses, coupled with the barest hint of a snarl looked almost hungry, predatory—and wasn't that always the case when anyone got the barest inkling of what he could do?

Edge nodded, and Clark let him go. The man straightened his suit, took his seat again and leaned back in it. "I accept your…terms. As long as you continue to make yourself…useful…we won't have any problems."

Clark nodded, walked calmly to the front of the desk, nearer to the two goons who were eyeing him darkly. Clark feigned an aggressive motion in their direction, chuckled when they jumped back. "Good," he said, satisfied with more than just the outcome of the negotiation.

"Larry will contact you with your next job," Edge said. "You'll be…?"

"At the club."

"Of course."

Clark jingled his keys, made a mockingly contrite face at Edge's two bodyguards, and exited the office. As he made his way around and through the rows of shipping crates, he let his hearing expand, focusing on what was being said about him in the room he had just vacated. Morgan Edge was speaking.

 _"I want that kid strung out—booze, drugs, gambling, women. I want to know his real name, you hear me? And I want to know it yesterday. Locate his parents, and anyone else who means anything to him. I need some leverage…"_

The night was hot, stifling, and the disgusting smell of dead fish wasn't helping any. As Clark settled on his motorcycle under the pale light of an obscured moon, he paused a moment to consider his options. He could control Morgan Edge. And Edge's lackeys—what could they do, really? Clark was faster, stronger; he had advantages no one could even suspect. Before Edge could make a move on anyone from his old life, Clark would shut him down.

Not that he cared. About anyone from his old life. Clark pulled away from the curb with a roar from his bike and the peal of tires on asphalt.

But there was someone in his life currently, someone who bridged the divide between the old Clark and the new Kal. Someone whose blue eyes would hold shock and disappointment at Clark's cavalier attitude towards the safety of his parents when his own parents had been gunned down on the street of Gotham.

 _They're not my parents._

 _They raised you. They love you. I would give everything for what you throw away…_

Why could he not get the thought of Bruce Wayne out of his head? Was it simply surprise that they would run into each other? Clark gunned the throttle, made the expensive machinery between his legs go faster. Was it the return to a point of possibility, one that had lingered after their first meeting, fueling his fantasies, when he had returned to Smallville last year after the fundraiser at the Princeton Club, a possibility that had seemed ridiculous then but was now…not so ridiculous? _Faster._ Was it merely lust, the look of him, so perfectly poised, with a focus that was palpable, that made a person feel like the most important person in the world when faced with that intense regard? _Faster._

Maybe it was simply the memory of a too short discussion, the way the tragedy of a life was revealed in a few random sentences, the connection that had seemed unusual, unidentifiable to a kid in high school with too little experience of the world, but had persisted, despite time and distance. _Faster._ The cool look in those icy blue eyes at the club tonight: disappointment—what did he care about some rich guy's _disappointment_ —disillusionment, a strange wistfulness that seemed poised on the edge of a remembrance, unwilling to let it go—

There was a time, mere weeks ago—

 _This is the mark of your ancestors. You cannot fight it, Kal-El._

—before he had been branded like a cow with the mark of some alien culture burned across his chest, before he had been told of an unwanted destiny by a voice claiming to be that of his birth father from a planet long dead—

 _The day is coming when the last son will begin his quest to rule the third planet._

—before he had learned he had no choice—

 _You have no choice, Kal-El._

—and some disembodied alien entity required him to leave everything he loved behind—

 _These people have served their purpose, Kal-El. It is time to leave them. You must let go of your past. I will guide you to your future._

—a time before the threat—

 _By the setting of the star, Sol, you will return to me. Your destiny will be fulfilled. If you do not, you will hurt the ones you love most._

—and the fulfillment of the threat through his own attempts to avoid the inevitable—there was a time _before_ when Bruce Wayne's _disappointment,_ his _disillusionment_ might have mattered.

Clark shook his head, the wind whipping his hair against his face like a lashing. _But not now._ Nothing mattered now. He was free. He was—

It didn't—

 _Disappointment._

 _Shame._

His chest tightened as with the onset of tears. His heart began a quick, painful beating that turned him dizzy. He eased up on the accelerator. In a rush, before he could think about what he was doing, he brought his bike to a skidding halt under a streetlight; let the bike drop to the ground on its side like a thing dead or dying. Stalked over to the phone booth at the corner, stopped, banged his head against the glass before sliding the door open. He stood there, staring at the phone. He brought his hand up, used the other to capture the ruby red ring on his middle finger…and pulled it off.

Dropped it on the floor of the phone booth—

As the intolerable weight of every bad decision came crashing down, stealing his breath, and the tears began to fall like rain. He picked up the phone…and dialed a familiar number.

"Hello?"

He had taken off the ring. He had dialed the number, but he couldn't make himself speak.

 _What did you do, Clark?_

 _I stole Lionel's Kryptonite key. I put it in the ship._

 _And why did you do that?_

 _Dad, I lied about the voice. It did come back. It told me I had to leave by noon. I didn't have a choice, Dad. I had to destroy the ship._

 _Why didn't you tell us?_

 _I knew you wouldn't agree with me. I didn't want it to take me away from you. I'm so sorry for what I did._

 _Your actions have consequences, Clark. Didn't your mother and I ever teach you that?_

"Clark…is that you?"

He had dialed the number, but he couldn't make himself speak.

 _This is no time for excuses, Clark. It's too late. You didn't think this thing through; you had no idea what was going to happen, and now your mother is lying in a hospital bed._

 _Doctor, how's my wife?_

 _She has a mild concussion, but she'll be fine._

 _And how is our baby?_

 _I'm sorry…_

 _Dad—_

"Clark." Broken sobs. "Please come home…"

He couldn't make himself speak.

 _I did this. The same way I always do. I bring pain and suffering to everyone's life. You should have seen the way my dad looked at me. It was like I was an alien._

 _Clark, don't do it. When you put that ring on you're not yourself._

 _That's exactly who I don't want to be, Pete._

He had taken off the ring. He had dialed the number, but he couldn't make himself speak. His mother was crying, and any second now he was going to ask to come home, but there was no possible pardon other than sheer oblivion, and the horrible mistakes made were like a dark chasm, impassible. Irreparable. _He had lied, and tried to destroy the ship that had brought him to this planet, and, instead, had destroyed the farm in an explosion that had blasted his father's truck off the road. His mom, pregnant with a child she thought she could never have was hurt in the crash, and lost the baby. She lost the baby. Because of me. **Because of me.** _

Unforgivable.

He hung up the phone, carefully. The tears—they refused to stop, until the brand in the shape of the insignia of the House of El that covered the whole of his chest began to burn, red hot, and his sobs turned to screams. He tore his shirt open, as the brand seemed to ripple and glow with an inner intensity, like the flow of lava across skin. In agony, he pulled the phone from its mooring and sent it crashing through the glass. In bitter despair, he sent the whole booth careening towards the ground, stomping, smashing glass, until he was the only thing left standing on a deserted corner down by the old Metropolis docks. Until he had to scrounge around on the ground on his hands and knees, frantic to find his only solace, to slip the red ring back on his finger and deaden the pain.

Clark felt the frenzy, the desolation of the past few minutes release him like a hand opening. He was awash in a red-tinged numbness, a timeless, seamless present, without past, without future, without real purpose. He no longer cared about anything. _He no longer cared._

Kal rose from the debris a different person, a person who looked on the scene of his recent outburst with disgust. A negligent thought and a blast of his heat vision set the rubble burning. With the bonfire blazing behind him, he retrieved his motorcycle and headed in the direction of downtown Metropolis.


	5. The Roots Left Behind

**IV. The Roots Left Behind**

_…as if suddenly the roots I had left behind_  
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood—  
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

+

_A week later…at Club Atlantis…_

Wincing, Bruce passed five hundred-dollar bills to the security guard at the back entrance of the club, again wondering what he was doing bribing his way into a place he had no business being in, looking for a guy he barely knew.

If possible, there were more people crammed into the smoky interior than there had been last weekend, and the music seemed even louder, pounding a wild, almost painful rhythm up from his feet and through his entire body. Bruce pushed into the crowd, angling towards the bar as the last place he'd seen Clark, not daring to hope that the kid from Smallville would simply be doing exactly what he had been doing last week—hanging around the bar, mauling blonds.

Bruce really had nothing else to go on, except an offhand comment by Harvey that he had seen the kid around the club frequently…and the hope that _frequently_ meant every weekend. The prospect of having to spend more than one night staking out the club, waiting for Clark to show was…not appealing.

A girl grabbed his arm, dark eyes, long dark hair, a ring through her nose and multiple rings through both ears, and motioned towards the dance floor with fingernails painted black. Bruce frowned and shook his head, pulled his arm out of her grasp and continued towards the bar. He wanted to find Clark, say what he had to say, offer what help he could, and return to his life—a life that did not include time for mindless gyrating or weekend club hopping.

The crowd around the bar was dense but fast moving. After only a few minutes of standing three-people removed from the counter, he found himself rotated to a clear space and an empty stool with relative ease, as people acquired their drinks and moved off to other areas of the club. Bruce settled on the stool and waited for one of the bartenders to notice him.

He took a moment to decide on his strategy. There were five people tending bar—four women and one man. The women he didn't recognize but the guy had been tending bar last weekend, while Clark was causing trouble and during the fight that had cleared the club. Bruce went over the scene in his mind, seeing it all happen again with the clarity of a person with photographic memory and perfect recall. In fact, he realized, the male bartender was the one who had tried to pull Clark away from the girl. If what Harvey had said was true and Clark frequented this establishment and had dealings with the club owners, it was possible the bartender would be able to tell him, at least, when the kid would likely re-appear.

Satisfied with his analysis, Bruce waved away the female bartender and indicated that he wanted to be served by her male counterpart. While he waited, Bruce pulled out his wallet and placed a hundred dollar bill on the counter.

The male bartender ambled over. He was older—mid thirties, at least—brown-skinned with a muted style that likely put his clientèle at ease. He gave Bruce an appraising look that said he didn't believe Bruce was over twenty-one and that he shouldn't push his luck by asking to be served alcohol, even with a c-note sitting on the counter.

Bruce smiled.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked.

"A Coke."

The guy nodded and reached for a glass.

"I'm trying to find a friend of mine," Bruce said, as the drink was placed on the counter. He pushed the one hundred dollar bill forward.

"Of course you are," the bartender said with a quirk to his lips. A large hand reached for the bill.

"Keep the change."

The guy nodded.

"My friend's name is Clark. Do you know him?"

"Clark?" The bartender shook his head. "Nope."

"He's tall, a little taller than me, dark hair, blue eyes, very…" Bruce paused, "handsome. Hard not to notice him, even in a crowd." The bartender's eyebrow arched, and Bruce felt heat start to rise to his cheeks that he clamped down on viciously. "He's young," Bruce continued, "he was in here causing trouble last weekend when a fight broke out—"

"Oh, you mean _Kal."_

"Kal?"

"That's his name." The bartender eyed him suspiciously. "I thought you said you were a friend of his?"

"Yeah, well, I am a friend, apparently from a past life. Listen, I need to talk to him. Do you know where I can find him?"

The bartender was silent, considering.

"I just want to talk."

"Easy enough," the bartender said, finally. "He practically lives here. Hang around. He usually shows up around midnight, sometimes earlier."

Bruce nodded his thanks, and then ducked his head to contemplate his glass of Coke. It took a moment for him to realize that the bartender was still talking.

"You're not the only one who's been in here looking for Kal. Blond chick showed up a few weeks back. Young girl, wouldn't take no for an answer. Kal wasn't…happy to see her. I don't know what you have to say to him," the bartender set a bowl of pretzels in front of him, "but I'd be careful. He's a wild one. He can be…touchy. And he has friends in the right places, if you know what I mean."

Bruce nodded slowly.

The bartender moved on with one last, speculative look. Bruce checked his watch. It was only ten-thirty. He sighed and reached for the pretzels.

+

Something was…different. The same cacophony of sound, the same mad press of bodies, jostling, bumping against the steel of him and then bouncing off, giving way, as he headed to his usual spot, the sound of his name a serenade:

_Hey, Kal!_

_What's up, Kal!_

_Any action tonight, Kal?_

He ignored them all, sparing attention only for the difference, the tantalizing thrum that pulled him in the direction of the bar and to Bruce Wayne, who had yet to notice he was the subject of Clark's scrutiny.

Clark maneuvered his way alongside the young man who he'd managed to forget about in the week since they'd last met, surprised to see someone so lost in the contemplation of a pretzel bowl in the midst of the pulsating atmosphere of a nightclub. Bruce looked…too serious, in his dark clothes that were clearly expensive but entirely too nondescript for the club scene, and was completely oblivious to the predatory appraisals from women and men alike as they orbited in his atmosphere. He was too somber and staid for a person his age. Didn't the guy believe in having fun?

What was he doing here anyway?

Clark leaned in. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit from my guardian angel?" he asked, voice low, perversely satisfied at being able to startle Bruce into spilling his drink. "I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"Clark."

Bruce turned on his barstool, and it amused Clark to watch that unflappable facade slip even further as Bruce realized he had effectively turned into him and there was no real room for Bruce to get to his feet. Their faces were too close, close enough that Clark could see Bruce flush, even in the darkness. It was…gratifying, amusing, enticing—all at once.

"Kal."

Bruce blinked, long eyelashes sweeping up, down, like wings. "What?"

"My name is Kal."

"Your name is Clark. Clark Kent."

Fascinating. There was a blue fire in those eyes when Bruce got worked up, an icy blaze that reminded Clark of—

"My name is Kal," Clark repeated, stepping back, giving Bruce space to get to his feet. "Clark Kent is simply the name I was given by people who took pity on a poor abandoned baby. Clark Kent is no longer relevant."

"You don't believe that—"

"So now you know what I believe?" An eyebrow went up. "Are you here to try to save me, angel?"

"Clark—"

"Dance with me," Clark said, placing a hand to an elbow that Bruce immediately shook off.

"I don't dance, I didn't come here to dance—"

Clark snapped his fingers and motioned for two of his favorites to make their way over. "You can't be my savior if you can't keep up, angel. It's the first thing they teach you in guardian angel school—or weren't you paying attention that day?" He pushed one of the girls forward and she stumbled into his arms. "Here, if you won't dance with me, dance with her."

Bruce smiled apologetically at the girl in his arms, then glared in Clark's direction. The too-tall kid from Smallville who was no kid smirked, turned his back and announced over his shoulder, "Don't expect me to allow you to save me if you refuse to be even a little bit amusing."

+

Bruce was fuming. For ten seconds he contemplated simply leaving, leaving Clark to his own devices and his piss poor choices. He could call the kid's parents, let them know how to find their missing son…but somehow Bruce was sure Clark would be gone before the Kents could make it to Metropolis. He could put in a call, have the kid arrested and hauled back to Smallville…but that was a temporary solution at best. He had no doubt Clark would run again at the first opportunity. No, if he wanted to help—and he _did_ want to help, he supposed—he had to give Clark what he needed to work his way through his problems, until he decided he _wanted_ to go home. Clark needed a friend, someone to provide a tempering influence but…

Bruce looked at the girl who was still within the circle of his arms, then over to the dance floor where Clark was grinding against his own partner and sighed. "Do you want to dance?" he asked. The girl nodded. They elbowed their way onto the floor until they reached their friends.

"I thought you couldn't dance," Clark commented, leaning in with his voice pitched to carry over the pounding of the music.

"I said I _don't_ dance," Bruce growled, pushing Clark away, "not that I _can't_ dance. Any moron can jump up and down and gyrate."

Clark's eyes were glinting, luminescent even in the dim lighting, his amusement clear. "Now we're all morons? Has anyone ever told you that you have a superiority complex?"

"No."

"No?" Clark's eyebrows went up, got lost in the hair curling into his eyes. "You must not have many friends, then."

Bruce shrugged, returned his attention to his partner, not willing to admit Clark's comment…bothered him. He supposed he didn't have very many friends—except for Harvey. He had many acquaintances; he was well known and popular in the way of those born with money, but, certainly, there wasn't anyone who would tell him if he was a complete bore, or lorded his privilege over others, or had a _superiority complex._ Even Harvey treated him like a priceless bone carving set on a pedestal to be _secured_ and _protected_ more often than not.

The music spiraled louder and louder, the beat hit harder and faster. The crowd responded with ever more frantic movement, a collective frenzy that had everyone just dancing, without concern for boundaries, without gravitating to any one partner. Bruce felt a touch at his waist, a hard skimming up his body. Clark was there, and they were dancing, locked together by Clark's hand that was around his waist like a steel band. He felt the knee between his legs, and he came up hard against it with a thrill that sent a frisson of excitement up his spine.

His heart was pounding, but not to the harsh rhythm of the music. It pounded to some _other_ rhythm, some _other_ beat that was unidentifiable until Clark pressed the whole of his body against his own, buried a hand in his hair and his face in the juncture of his neck, licking up the sweat there. Bruce shuddered, the edges of his vision blurred and turned black. He began to struggle.

"What are you doing?" Bruce snarled, pushing at Clark, trying to get him to back off, but Clark was wrapped around him like a second skin, and his struggles seemed to have no effect—none at all. Clark moved from neck to lips, licking, nibbling, insisting Bruce open up to him with an intensity, a focus that made it easy to forget they were in the middle of a dance floor, surrounded by a crowd of people—and that Clark was…a seventeen-year-old high school student. Bruce groaned.

"Clark…" He pushed again, trying to maneuver out of arms that held him immobile. "Clark—" He elbowed, pushed, growled low in his throat, _"Clark, not like this."_

Clark froze, stopped his assault. Pulled back a little so they could look at each other while the crowd swirled around them wildly. "If not like this, then how?"

"Just—not like _this."_

"You're a phony," Clark said as he let Bruce go, pushed him away, really, in obvious disgust. "Fake. Full of shit. What are you doing here if not for _this?_ You want something from me—everyone wants something from me—but you don't want to _do_ anything about it. If not like _this,_ then like _how?_ If not _here,_ then _where?_ If not _now,_ then _when?"_

With an abruptness that left Bruce's head spinning, Clark started to make his way off the dance floor. "Life's short," he announced, over his shoulder. "You don't always get a second chance."

Bruce watched Clark walk away, stunned. Then he stormed after him, pushing his way through the crowd with little regard. He caught up to Clark again by the bathrooms, grabbed his arm, pulled him around so they were face to face.

"I came here to talk to you. You're going to listen to what I have to say."

Clark's eyebrows went up. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Then talk."

Bruce reached out again, pushed Clark over to the wall by the pay phones so they could have some semblance of privacy. Clark was glaring at him rebelliously, looking younger in his pique than he had since—well, since the start of their whole strange association. Bruce ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. It wasn't often that he needed to be this confrontational with…anyone, really. Things were handed to you on a platter when you were Bruce Wayne of Gotham City, sole heir to one of the largest family fortunes in the world. There wasn't much that his trust fund or his status couldn't buy, so having to fight with Clark like this had him keyed up and feeling completely outside of himself. A thought came to him out of the blue of eyes staring at him so furiously: that this must be what it felt like to argue with a sibling or a parent—with everything, all in, all at once.

"I read the missing persons report your parents filed—"

"You were checking up on me."

"Yes. I don't—I don't know you very well," Bruce paused, reconsidered, "obviously, I don't know you at all, but I do know you somewhat, I mean, you're not a complete stranger…"

"Are you always this lucid?"

Bruce could feel his face flush and damned his inability to stop rising to Clark's bait—it was usually so easy for him to control—

He started again. "I pulled the police report because I thought you needed help—"

Clark glowered. "I don't. I'm fine, and I'm not going back to Smallville."

"You can't seriously plan to stay here, hanging out at a club. What about school? How are you going to live? What are you doing with that motorcycle—if you're in over your head I can help you. Let me call your parents. I'm sure we—"

"You're sure? You're _sure_ that just because they filed a missing persons report the Kents want me back? You're _sure_ that just because they made a pretense of looking for me they want me in their home?" Clark scoffed, and from the way he was staring off into the distance, over at the dance floor, Bruce could tell he was losing Clark's attention, making innumerable mistakes—but, _dammit,_ he had to _try._

"So _sure_ —when you don't even know what you're talking about."

"Fine," Bruce said, "you don't have to go home, but surely you have relatives, friends, there are programs, you don't have to live like _this."_

That got Clark's attention, but, apparently, not in a good way. "Like what?" he asked, voice low, with a dangerous edge that made Bruce take a step back. "Something wrong with my lifestyle, angel?" All of a sudden their positions were reversed, and Bruce was the one with his back up against the wall. "I can take care of myself, and my lifestyle—it suits me." Clark leaned in, his breath warm, tickling Bruce's lips. "And I don't need some privileged frat boy who doesn't know anything about me trying to tell me what to do with my life."

"Fine."

The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Clark smiled, his tongue darted out, made a sweep across full lips. Bruce expected him to lean in at any moment, steal a kiss like his eyes were promising to do. He tensed, expecting, anticipating, but Clark kept his distance.

"So…you thought you'd come here and convince me to go home?"

"I thought I'd _try."_

"And now that you've _tried,_ and I gave you my answer, what happens next?"

"I give you my phone number. I tell you to call me if you get into trouble, if you change your mind. I go home. I go to sleep."

"You give up." Clark's lips quirked, and for the hundredth time, Bruce wondered how a shy, innocent farm boy could turn into such a glib sophisticate in a few short months. "The second thing you learn in guardian angel school is never give up."

"What do you want me to do?" Bruce growled in frustration, looking around and past Clark who was leaning into him, contemplating the best means to escape. This conversation was going nowhere.

"I don't know," Clark whispered softly, and he finally closed the rest of the distance between them, finally allowed their lips to touch, and it was so different from their previous embrace on the dance floor. This time it was slow, hesitant, dizzying in depth and intensity. This time it was like the first time, at the Princeton Club, and not like that time at all. It was a kiss of strange new beginnings, rooted in past encounters but branching off into startling directions. When Clark pulled back, Bruce found he was gripping Clark's arms. He had to take a breath before he realized he needed to let him go.

"What do you _want_ to do?" Clark asked, and his eyes were laughing at him as if Bruce had already answered his question. Bruce flushed, but with anger this time, and not embarrassment. He pulled out his wallet, grabbed a business card, and flicked it in Clark's direction, hitting him in the face.

"Call me if you need help. I'm not interested in playing these games with you." He ducked out of Clark's arms, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and headed in the direction of the back door of the club. He could hear Clark laughing behind him. _Asshole._

All of a sudden, Clark was in front of him, blocking his path.

"I'm sorry," he said, with a grin. "I don't want you to leave."

"Too bad. You don't always get what you want. Move."

"Come on. Lighten up. You're worse than a girl."

Bruce opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Again, Clark was smirking. Bruce was two seconds from knocking that smirk off his face—he didn't care how much trouble he'd get into.

"I'll make a deal with you," Clark said, "—a bet: you drink me under the table, I'll take the next bus home."

"I don't drink."

Clark shrugged. "I don't go home."

Bruce made a move to go around Clark but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Come on. Aren't you the big college guy, frat boy? Surely, you're not worried about me. I'm a lightweight—and it'll be fun."

Bruce folded his arms across his chest. "I. Don't. Drink."

Clark sighed, big, dramatic. "You don't drink; you don't dance. So many things you don't do." He reached out, tucked a stray lock of hair behind Bruce's ear. "I used to be like you. Not so long ago." He grinned. "A lifetime ago."

Clark's fingers strayed from his hair, to his cheek, to his lips. Bruce pulled away.

"You have to be willing to take a risk for what you want, angel. You offer nothing, you get nothing."

Bruce stared. He couldn't escape the feeling he was bargaining with the devil, that he should just head home, leave Clark to his own devices, leave him to make his own choices, his own mistakes. But then he thought about that expensive motorcycle Clark was riding, how there was no way a kid from Smallville should have access to that kind of money, and the reports of the robbery spree that had Metropolis in an uproar— _and if Morgan Edge had Clark messed up in that he'd make it his mission in life to take down his whole organization,_ he swore to himself. Then there were the drugs—he would bet money Clark was on something—

"And what do you get?" Bruce asked slowly. "If I lose, what do you get?

Clark smiled, the light in his eyes challenging. "I get you to stop harassing me about my prior life amongst the cows and the hay."

"Fine." Bruce turned towards the bar.

"Not that way, angel. Follow me." Clark put an arm across his shoulders and turned him back in the direction of the bathrooms. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a little bit prissy? Worse than a girl, trying to convince you to have a little fun—"


	6. That Crumbled Solitude

**V. That Crumbled Solitude**

 _…and it seemed to me impossible  
that beneath all that sadness,  
that crumbled solitude,  
the roots were still at work  
with no one to encourage them._

+

 _Ten minutes later…upstairs…in a private room…_

Clark almost laughed out loud at the comical look of distaste on that aristocratic face. The way that perfect nose sniffed—once, twice—the way blue eyes skewered him accusingly.

"What are we doing in here, Clark? I can't be in here, I'm a police—"

"Shut up," Clark said, shaking his head. What was the frat boy trying to do? Announce he was a police officer recruit to a room full of criminals? "Sit." He pushed Bruce so he fell back into the plush seat in an empty booth, and when his indignant angel tried to get up again, he quickly seated himself, blocking an easy escape.

"Clark—"

"Bruce—" he mimicked. Perhaps the smell of marijuana, thick in the air, was already affecting him because the look on his face was wrathful, but he sure wasn't trying that hard to leave—and that suited Clark just fine. He had plans for Bruce Wayne, and allowing him to escape wasn't part of the agenda.

"Relax." He motioned to one of the girls. "I know this isn't your style," Clark shrugged, "but it's quieter up here. Only people who work for the owner are allowed in this room, so we won't be disturbed." He waved a hand in the direction of the other people, sitting around in groups, playing cards, drinking, doing coke. "Just ignore them. They mind their own business, we'll mind ours."

"I shouldn't be in here. _You_ shouldn't be in here. You're only—"

"Seventeen." Clark rolled his eyes. "Don't you know any other song? Truth is, you don't know if I'm seventeen. No one knows exactly how old I am. I was found as a toddler." Clark wondered why he bothered explaining anything. It wasn't as if he owed anyone an explanation—least of all Bruce Wayne. "Developmentally, I couldn't do anything the other kids could do. The Kents decided on an age to get me into school at a point they thought I could handle. I could be the same age as you, for all anyone knows."

This was getting tiring. He wasn't having as much fun as he should be having, as he could be having if his angel was piss ass drunk—which he was going to be in…a little under an hour, if Clark was any judge.

"Tequila shots? Beer chaser?" He watched Bruce nod slowly. Already his eyes were red rimmed, just from the smoke in the room. Clark almost felt guilty about what he was going to do to him—but not guilty enough to stop. He nodded his agreement as the waitress made her way over with a tray.

The half-naked girl brought over two bottles of Tequila, two shot glasses, four bottles of Corona, the salt, and some lime slices. Clark noticed the way she was looking at Bruce, so when she turned her back, he nudged his oblivious companion. "She's interested. She'd do you, if you throw her a few dollars."

"I'm not paying someone for sex."

Clark shrugged, poured liquor in the two shot glasses, but when Bruce reached for his glass, Clark batted his hand away. "She might do you for free, if you didn't want to pay. If I were her, I'd do you…for free." He reached out, grabbed Bruce's hand, brought a long index finger to his mouth and licked the back of it slowly, sucking lightly below the knuckle, then applied the salt. He took his time licking the salt from Bruce's skin. He downed his shot of Tequila in one gulp and grabbed a slice of lime. It was particularly gratifying, watching his angel stare at him with those smoldering blue eyes and that stunned expression. Clark would bet money if he reached under the table, he'd find Bruce was hard as a rock. But it wasn't time for that yet.

Instead, he held out his hand.

Eyes glinted, dangerously bright. A hand grabbed his own, and the erotic feel of tongue across the back of his finger, salt, then tongue again, almost made him abandon the game before it started in earnest. He wanted Bruce Wayne; he would have him. He had never wanted anything _more._

Shot after shot, Bruce kept the pace, and, actually, about halfway through the first bottle, Clark had to admit he was impressed. Of course, the alcohol had no affect on him, so Bruce was engaged in a losing battle—though the Gotham City prodigy had no way of knowing that. Still, the frat boy was putting up an admirable fight. Perhaps it wasn't fair, but it sure was funny to see the way the alcohol was affecting him. And their routine—licks had turned to sucking of whole digits, and if sex could be had by hand to mouth alone, they were engaged in some steamy sex. Clark wanted—

He wanted this game to be over with, and the way Bruce was leaning into his side, the way he could barely raise his hand, let alone his glass, told Clark that it just about was.

"You give up, angel?" Clark asked, voice low, with a hand resting in the dark hair that covered a head that was now pillowed on folded arms on the table. The other hand lightly stoked Bruce's thigh. His only response was a brief moan.

"Good." He nodded, petting hair like ebony feathers. "No more talk about the Kents or Smallville. You'll have to find some other way to convince me to go home." Again, Bruce only groaned, but he shifted closer, to the hands stroking him, to the warmth of a close body, making Clark smile. "You're a sleepy drunk. I should leave you here." Clark looked around, noticing the wrong kind of people were watching them, covertly, from dark corners, and he remembered Morgan Edge had made a threat against the people he cared about. Of course, he didn't care about Bruce, but he could see how it might look that way to someone who didn't know any better. Abruptly, he decided he shouldn't have brought the angel upstairs after all. It was a better idea for them to go now, before there was any trouble.

"Can you get up?" he asked. No movement. "We have to go now, angel. Don't make me carry you." He shrugged. "I will, but you're prickly, and I suspect you wouldn't be too happy about it…"

This time there was movement. A head raised up slowly, bloodshot eyes squinted at him. "How are you still standing?" a scratchy voice mumbled. "It's not fair that you're still standing."

"All's fair in love and war, angel." Clark reached down and helped Bruce to his feet, slinging an arm around his waist to keep him upright.

Clark made sure they made quick progress down the stairs and out the back door of the club. The security guard eyed him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, but Clark had no time to put the clown in his place. He maneuvered Bruce over to his motorcycle and stopped.

"I'm going to put you on my bike," he said.

"What?" Bruce mumbled, licking his lips. "No. Put me in a cab—"

"Why? Just get on the bike. Lift your leg. Lift—" Clark held him in place as he used his super speed to settle in front of him. "Hold on," he said, as Bruce collapsed onto his back. "The only thing you have to do is hold on."

"Helmets—"

"No helmets. I won't let anything happen to you. Are you ready? Hold on, don't let go."

+

Bruce felt like he was flying—no, he felt like he was going to hurl—no, he felt like he was flying…

They were traveling at some impossible speed down the streets of Metropolis. Bruce was pressed tightly to Clark's back, the warm wind whipping his hair, his face. He head was spinning dizzily, and he felt the tight fear that any sudden movement would send him spiraling into blackness. He clutched at the only solid thing that was available to him—Clark—and tried to clear his mind to think.

They seemed to have picked up a police car or three. The loud, abrasive sirens behind them sounded—close…then far. Bruce groaned, buried his face in the fabric of Clark's shirt and tried to keep his stomach on the inside. It would be a disaster if they were caught by the police, an absolute disaster—

The next thing he knew they were coming to a slow halt. There were no police cars chasing them. They seemed to be down by the old docks, at the end of the boardwalk, an area of Metropolis that ordinary people avoided, especially at night. Clark killed the ignition and swung a leg over the bike. Bruce fell off the bike and into his arms.

"Asshole," Bruce groaned. "Asshole." He fought to get Clark's hands off of him, to stand on his own. "What do you think you were _doing?_ Are you crazy?" His voice rose, now that his head had stopped spinning, and his heart had moved from his throat back to his chest. "We could have been killed, arrested. _What's wrong with you?"_

Clark was glaring at him, and maybe, Bruce thought, he should temper his comments, but he was so _angry._ He had let Clark have his way the entire night, and he'd just about had enough.

"I'm out of here." Bruce started walking. He didn't care where he was going, as long as it was away from Clark.

But Clark was in front of him again, blocking his way, like magic. "You can't leave. I let you walk away the last time. This time, I'm not giving you a choice."

"You must be drunker than you look," Bruce mumbled. "Get out of my way."

"No."

"Clark, I'm warning you—"

"I'm warning you—you have no idea what I'm capable of."

Bruce was through coddling Clark. With a quick movement and a flick of a wrist, Clark was on the street, laying flat on his back. "Get in my way again," Bruce said, "and I'll break something." He stepped around the kid who was staring up at him with dangerous diamonds for eyes, and started walking.

Bruce rubbed at his face. He had to figure out where he was exactly so he could find his way back to the penthouse. Behind him he heard the roar of a motorcycle, the peal of tires. He forced himself not to turn. When he was sure he was alone, he doubled over by a telephone pole and emptied his stomach. With that bit of business over with, he pulled his cell phone out and called Harvey to pick him up.

+

When Harvey arrived at a truly detestable corner in a desolate area of the city, he found Bruce sitting on the curb, waiting with his head between his knees. Harvey got out of the car, and rushed over to help his friend—who was obviously in need of some serious assistance.

Bruce looked up as Harvey approached, allowing Harvey to catalog the bloodshot eyes, the messy hair, the clothing that was in a deplorable state—but it was everything else that made Harvey stop and stare. The lips, swollen and bruised, that looked like someone had feasted on them, the red marks on the pale skin of his neck, the angry, yet vulnerable look in too bright eyes.

"You look like shit, man," Harvey said as he helped his friend up and to the car. "Have you been drinking? Without _me?"_

"Just take me home," Bruce groaned, allowing Harvey to settle him in the passenger's seat and close the seat belt. "Grill me later."

As Harvey pulled the car away from the curb, Bruce rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window and looked out over the docks—saw Clark, standing in the shadows, watching, or maybe it was just his imagination.


	7. A Wound That Love Had Opened

**VI. A Wound That Love Had Opened**

 _ **Come with me,** I said, and no one knew   
where, or how my pain throbbed,  
no carnations or barcaroles for me,  
only a wound that love had opened._

+

 _Late the next morning…at the Wayne penthouse…in Metropolis…_

They were flying. _Hold on,_ Clark said, and his voice was the harsh lash of the wind against his face, whipping through his hair, pulling tears from his eyes. _Don't let go._

 _Hold on. Don't let go._

Bitter, sweet, the taste of skin. _Angel, you taste like—_

The constant press, the irresistible pull— _You can't leave…_

Anger. Fear. Fear of— _flying._

Eyes—extraordinary, impossible, heartbreakingly blue. _Decipher me, or I will destroy you._

Clark.

 _Kal._

"Clark—"

 _Kal._

 _"Clark…"_

"Harvey. At least that's what my parents call me. Though, I suppose you could call me Clark. I never mind a bit of role-play. Sex is all about the fantasy…"

 _Wrong—_ "Harvey," Bruce groaned, slitting open an eye and then shutting it again quickly, at the sharp stab of pain. _"Oh god…"_ What had he done to himself?

"Feeling your cups, sleeping beauty? That's what you get for getting smashed with strangers. Lucky for you I'm here to offer some help. Drink this. It'll make you feel better."

Bruce struggled to sit up, to think around the pounding in his head. "Wha—" he swallowed, trying to get his swollen tongue to work. "What are you doing here?" he whispered, reaching for the cup.

Harvey sat down on the bed. "You didn't expect me to just leave you in the condition you were in? You do remember calling me to pick you up?"

Bruce sipped his drink, gagged, deposited the vile concoction on the nightstand with distaste. "What the hell is that crap, Harvey?" Slowly, he moved his head, realized that a sheet was barely covering his complete nakedness. "Where the hell are my clothes?"

Harvey raised an eyebrow, shrugged a shoulder. "You were a mess. I couldn't put you in bed like that. Your sheets are too damn expensive…Anyway, disrobing you was a public service. Trust me, I took no liberties with the royal personage, my prince, but you do have the cutest—"

"Harvey. Get the fuck out."

Laughing lowly, Harvey got to his feet. "Is this the thanks I get for getting you out of trouble? First you use me, then you call me Clark, and then you kick me out. You're a harsh one, my prince."

"Get. Out."

"Lucky for you I'm a loyal servant and not easily offended. Drink all of that and give it thirty minutes. You'll feel much better, trust me."

Finally, Bruce was alone. He could hear Harvey moving around in the other rooms as he sank back into the bed with a groan.

"I'll call you later, Bruce," Harvey shouted out. "Try to stay out of trouble—shit, _twilight zone._ I never thought I'd have to say that to _you—"_

Bruce heard the door slam and expelled air. Explanations avoided—for now. Wallowing in his misery, he put a pillow over his head and tried to stop the daggers behind his eyes with a return to the edge of the abyss and everything that awaited him there.

+

Swollen. His bottom lip looked like he had taken a shot to the mouth without a mouth guard. Bruce examined himself in the bathroom mirror with the appalled fascination of a stranger. Bruises in the shape of the fingers of a large hand decorated both arms. Dark red suck marks marred the skin on the right side of his neck, above the neckline of any dress shirt he could wear to cover the evidence. "Dammit," he swore. He'd have to resort to some sort of make-up—he couldn't possibly go to class on Monday looking like…

Then he remembered—Harvey had undressed him last night, and his face flushed. _What in the world must Harvey think?_

He ghosted his fingers over the damaged areas, the dull soreness of every mark or bruise an unwelcome reminder of how it felt to be swept up, overwhelmed; to experience a momentary madness, poised on the brink of a dangerous edge where any outrageous thing could happen, at any time. Unwelcome memories— _that made him shiver, made his stomach clench and his heart pound._

A hot shower would get the smell and the taste and the feel of last night out of his head, he decided. Then he'd run over to the dojo for a workout, to sweat the toxins out of his system.

It was a good thing he had put a stop to the madness with Clark last night, he thought, as he turned on the water in the shower and adjusted it to a pleasing temperature. _Of course, it was._ He had never been so drunk in his life. _Anything could have happened._ Clark was wild, dangerous, and didn't seem to understand the word _no._ Bruce stepped gingerly under the fall of water and sighed with relief. Something had changed for Clark, something deep, something not easily fixed. He was headed for serious trouble, and Bruce was just glad he had done what he could, offered some help. Now he could put this whole strange episode, this inexplicable _obsession,_ this need to reconcile a memory with present reality, behind him and concentrate on the things he could control.

Satisfied, Bruce finished his shower, dressed, grabbed his gear and headed for his dojo at a run. If not for the dull ache in his head, he could have banished the rush of last night from his mind entirely. But the ache—even though dulled—was relentless.

+

The penthouse was dark, quiescent, when he returned after many hours of aggressive physical activity. He had stayed at the dojo for hours, where he was commandeered to teach the three afternoon classes when one of the regular instructors called in sick. His sensei had taken him for sushi afterwards, to thank him for his help. Certainly, a very gratifying return to normalcy.

He changed clothes, stuck some carrots and celery in the juicer, tolerated the obnoxiously loud noise as the vegetables were pulverized into something he could easily drink and planned the rest of his evening. He had to do some studying, then, perhaps, he would call Harvey. His longtime friend always had something planned on Saturday nights, and would be glad to have Bruce along. Bruce, usually happy to be home alone, felt he would actually be…glad of the distraction this evening—as long as Harvey's plans did not include another trip to Club Atlantis. In Bruce's mind, that chapter was now closed.

His new resolve lasted until he turned on the television to watch the evening news.

There was Clark—masked, but Bruce would have recognized those eyes, that build, that arrogant tilt to the head, anywhere—robbing the Metropolis Savings and Trust.

A frisson of shock went through him as he watched the fuzzy security camera footage of the robbery. He fell onto the sofa, his legs suddenly too weak to allow him to remain standing. Clark wore a black mask and was accompanied by four other men wearing clown masks. The clowns had guns, and the only redeeming part of the appalling scene was the fact that Clark happened to be the only perpetrator without one. The footage was brief, and Bruce scrambled for the remote to watch the scene again via the digital video recorder.

 _Clark._

Bruce froze the image on the screen. He had suspected Clark was in over his head—but this? The young man from Smallville didn't need to be doing _this_ — _why was he doing this?_

The answer supplied itself. Morgan Edge. The Intergang crime boss who controlled Metropolis' underworld—a criminal who preyed upon the innocent, the confused, who took any weakness and twisted it to his own ends.

Bruce knew if he could recognize Clark behind that mask, it was only a matter of time before Clark was exposed, arrested. He felt his stomach tie itself into a tight ball of anxiety—for a person he barely knew but…cared about, all the same. At seventeen, they'd likely charge Clark as an adult, and his whole life would be over. Morgan Edge—he'd be too far removed from the crime to be hauled up on charges, even though he was the instigator, the enabler.

Bruce ran his hand through his hair. He had to think. He couldn't—

He couldn't just let this happen. He wouldn't. Clark might not want his help but he'd give the young man no choice. _They had a connection_ —there, he admitted it. He was sure Clark felt it, too, wanted—

Bruce sighed, a bit of tension released, but only a bit. Possibly, he could use what Clark _wanted_ to get him to see reason. String him along, _just a little._ All he'd have to do was—

A few things he wouldn't ordinarily do.

He needed leverage, however. Information. He had to know exactly what he was dealing with to find the right solution. He checked his watch. _Seven o'clock._ Early enough to go talk to that bartender before Clark showed up at the club.

+

 _Early Sunday morning…outside a low-rise apartment building…on the outskirts of downtown Metropolis…_

The apartment building where Clark Kent lived was…exclusive, chic, expensive, located in a trendy section of downtown Metropolis usually reserved for single professionals. Bruce made some notes concerning the building in his notepad, grabbed his camera and got out of his car to take pictures. He would investigate the owner of the building tomorrow when he was at the academy. There was simply no way Clark could afford an apartment in a building like this—which wasn't even the point. No legitimate landlord would rent an apartment to a seventeen-year-old without a co-signer and a job.

Through the gates to the property, Bruce could see Clark's motorcycle parked, a fancy toy not so out of place next to the expensive cars to the left and right. But the parked vehicle meant Clark was in residence; likely in his apartment sleeping off his excesses. The desire to simply find a way inside and confront him—about the money, the robberies, _the wreck of his life_ —was almost overwhelming, but Bruce tapped down on the impulse. As he headed back to his car, his mind was already formalizing his plan. He needed a tracking device for the motorcycle. There was no other way to keep up with Clark, find out where he was going, without being seen. It would be a little tricky, getting access to surveillance equipment as a recruit, but he had a mentor in the FBI, Bill Astor, and Bill wouldn't think it unusual if Bruce asked for some equipment to take apart and study. It was the type of thing Bruce did all the time—and Bill was well aware of his tech savvy. He did own one of the world's largest tech companies, after all, even if it was all tied up in trust.

With the right plan, the right equipment, there was a chance he could not only extricate Clark from the mess he was in, but also gather enough information to implicate Morgan Edge—the real criminal. If he could just make sure the blame for the robberies pointed to Edge and his organization, _and not Clark,_ and manage to convince Clark to go home—or if not home, maybe he could help Clark find a legitimate job, get him back in school. Anything. _Alfred would help…_

He pulled away from the curb, watching the facade of Clark's apartment building recede in his rear view window, grimly determined. He had a busy week ahead of him.

+

 _Late Friday night…at Club Atlantis…_

As Bruce waited for the valet to take his car, he tapped a finger on the scattered pieces of a file sitting on the passenger seat next to him. The notes, pictures and print outs were the compilation of a week's worth of surveillance. Again, he wondered what he _should_ do—not what he wanted to do—with the information he had been able to collect while following Clark. He had enough in the file to pass the investigation off to a real detective in the department. He would earn his colleagues' respect for solving the mystery behind the rash of robberies that had the whole city in an uproar, and, perhaps, it was even the safer course of action, seeing how deeply involved Clark was with Morgan Edge. And because of Clark's access to the gangster, there was even the likelihood Clark could cut a deal, testify against Edge, and close this whole chapter in his life.

That was the safe thing to do—let someone _else_ handle this mess.

The valet walked towards his car. Bruce gathered the file and slipped it under the seat. He had to try to reach Clark one more time, try to make him see reason. No other course of action felt right to him, in his gut. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake.

The security guard at the back door remembered him. A toothy grin, a hand held out, money exchanged, and he was inside, surrounded by the smoke and the noise that now seemed almost familiar, comfortable…reassuring. The dark wrapped itself around him, allowing for a release of tension, the return of an expectant anxiety. _He had chosen his way, and set his foot upon the path. He would not falter._

Bruce kept his eyes roaming the dance floor, the crowd by the bar, trying to locate a certain face, a familiar head of tousled brown hair, as he made his way across the club. _There._ Clark was in the corner by the phones. Of course, he had some girl pressed to the wall under him, hands on either side of her head, hips grinding slowly, holding her immobile—Bruce had expected nothing less from him, it seemed he always had some girl on his arm, but still—

Just then, Clark paused, raised his head as if scenting something inimical in the air. His head turned to the right, and their eyes locked—enabling Bruce to see it wasn't a _girl_ Clark had pinned to the wall. It was a guy, a guy with pale, perfect skin, dark hair and sharp blue eyes.

The revelation was like a fist in the stomach.

Clark smirked, winked, and returned his attention to his companion.

Slowly, trying to reign in his uncharacteristic temper, Bruce traveled the remaining distance between himself and Clark, and stood there while the kid from Smallville continued to ignore him.

"Clark." No answer. _"Clark—"_

"What is it, angel?" Clark said without looking up from the guy's neck and with a groan that made Bruce's fists clench at his side.

"Clark—" This time, Bruce reached out a hand and grabbed Clark by the shoulder. Immediately, he was flying across the hallway, crashing into the opposite wall.

Clark was standing over him. The guy he was with was still propped against the wall looking dazed and debauched, clearly wanting Clark to pick up where he had left off and to forget about this unfortunate interruption. Wincing, Bruce got to his feet.

"Last time I let you get away with one," Clark said, eyes glowing with an eerie red halo that Bruce couldn't remember ever noticing before. "It was a gift. Next time, I hit back." Clark paused, studied him. "What are you doing here, angel?"

 _What the hell am I doing here?_ Bruce wondered as he flexed his shoulder. He knew what Alfred would have said: _The things you consider your own remain your own, Master Bruce, even when common sense dictates otherwise._

"I came to see _you,_ you goddamn idiot." Bruce stepped up to Clark, glowered right back at him. "But I see you're busy with—" he flicked a hard gaze over to the obvious _substitute,_ let Clark read the scorn in his eyes, "your friend over there. Have fun." Bruce turned away and headed towards the door to the back alley at a clip. There was nothing he could do for Clark. Clearly, he had made a mistake in his analysis of the situation. He wasn't going to compound the mistake by making a fool out of himself.

He had to stop when he passed through the door and into the balmy night air to take a deep breath, to slow his racing heartbeat. It seemed he needed the wall of the building to keep himself upright while he regained his equilibrium. Strange, to have the whole world seem so unfocused, so precarious, so in need of a realignment after such a brief interaction, but then— _Alfred would say he had never been one to handle failure well._

Bruce straightened, started the walk down the alleyway and to the front of the club where he could ask the valet to retrieve his car. When he reached the sidewalk, where the streetlights painted dirty pictures on the cement, Clark was there, on his motorcycle, studying him with a hunger, with an intensity usually reserved for the starving. "Come with me," he said. "Right now. Don't think about it."

This time, Bruce did not hesitate.


	8. To Start Infinity Again

**VII. To Start Infinity Again**

_I love you in order to begin to love you,_  
_to start infinity again_  
_and never to stop loving you:_  
_that's why I do not love you yet._

+

_"Where are we going?"_

The voice sounded right in his ear, pitched to carry over the roar of the motorcycle and seemingly designed to send lightning coursing through his veins like the rush of exposure to red Kryptonite. Clark could call to mind the beautiful women he'd had on his bike over the past few weeks, and not one of them had been anything other than annoying once he'd hit the open road, the sound of their voices in his ear a mere distraction from the need to go faster, farther.

_"Clark, where are we going—?"_

The whip of the wind flung the words into the night behind them like a sail. What did it matter, where they were going? As long as they were—

Clark couldn't help laughing maniacally. _"Anywhere we want to go,"_ he called out, gunning it. Strong arms and thighs tightened around him, as they pressed almost horizontal into a curve. Clark exulted in the perfect fit of a body against his back—not a too-light piece of ass, easily disregarded, but a shadow of himself that molded to him shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh.

 _Faster._ He could feel Bruce smiling into the nape of his neck. If he took extra risks, made the bike do things that no piece of mechanical equipment should do for anyone at all concerned about life and limb, Clark shrugged it off to necessity. Every single moment he spent with Bruce had its own momentum, its own imperative—and this moment was no exception. Clark had to show his angel what it was really like to ride the wind, to live poised on the edge of a gaping chasm. Then Bruce would _understand._

Nothing was as important as going faster and faster, pushing it further and further; taking life to the limit and beyond. As they traversed all the best roads in and around Metropolis at speed, Clark began to feel he had made his point. There was something new in the way Bruce held onto him that spoke to the wildness in his bloodstream, the fact that both hands had made their way underneath Clark's t-shirt and were now splayed across his stomach, like Bruce needed a better point of connection, a better way to share the same experience. _Yes, they were connected,_ and could ride together like this forever—if only there weren't still things he had to do.

They slowed when they entered one of the 24-hour parking garages in downtown Metropolis, and circled up through the levels until they reached the rooftop. It was late, and the uppermost floor of the structure was only sparsely populated with cars. Clark maneuvered the bike into a parking space next to a silver-colored Toyota, dismounted and turned to study his companion by moonlight, against the inky blackness of the night sky. The sight made him grin smugly.

"You must have a death-wish, the way you ride that motorcycle…" Bruce stared at him quizzically, his mouth curved up into a small smile. "What?"

He had been the one to put that flush on those pale cheeks, Clark suddenly realized, the one who had caused those blue eyes to glitter like diamonds. The one who had ruffled the perfect ebony feathers of Bruce's hair and brought that small, excited smile into being. He was the one.

"You're not going to hit me this time?"

A dark brow arched. "I didn't hit you last time. If I had hit you, you'd know it. I just flipped you…" Bruce shrugged, "a little."

Clark scoffed, back peddling and raising his hands. "You had that kung-fu thing going on. You just caught me by surprise." He took a seat on the front hood of the silver car. "But now I know what to expect from you. It won't happen again."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself." Bruce took a seat next to him, his feet on the bumper, studying the sky.

"Always," Clark agreed.

Bruce glanced over at him briefly.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just—you've changed. I still find it hard to believe."

Clark shrugged. "Things change, angel." He thought briefly of Martha, of Jonathan, of his old life in Smallville. "Nothing stays the same." He leaned back so he was propped against the windshield, crossed his arms under his head and stared up at the crescent moon.

A quiet voice interrupted his reverie. "Why did you bring me here?"

"You wanted to talk." Clark turned his head, pinned Bruce with his eyes. "So talk."

If he thought he would intimidate Bruce with the flatness of his gaze, Clark was disappointed. It seemed Bruce was willing to stare right back at him, give no ground. He clearly wasn't afraid. _He should be,_ Clark thought idly. _He doesn't know enough to be afraid,_ and the thought made Clark wonder if this was the time to show Bruce what he could really do— _if this was their moment._ He waited, on the keen edge of anticipation. Waiting.

"I saw you on the news."

"Me."

"In a mask, robbing that bank last weekend."

 _Not yet._ Clark smiled, returned his attention to the blanket of stars. "You saw a masked man on the news—"

"I saw _you."_

"Whatever." Clark shrugged.

"I want you to stop."

Clark sat up, draped his arms over his knees, curled around himself like a big cat and frowned. "Let's imagine I am robbing banks. Why would I stop? Because you say so?"

"It's wrong. You're going to get caught." Bruce got to his feet, ran a hand through hair that was still standing on end as a result of their wild ride.

Clark got up off the car, too, studying Bruce: his earnest expression, the galaxy of his eyes that said he _cared_ and was beating himself up because of it. "And you still think you can save me."

Bruce exhaled harshly. "I don't want to see you throw your life away! Not when I can help. If you won't go home, I can get you a job—"

"Says the pampered rich kid who's never had to work a day in his life."

Bruce's gaze hardened. "That's not fair."

Clark nodded, moved over to the retaining wall and vaulted himself up until he was hanging over the wall precariously, staring down ten stories to the street below. "The life you save is forever your own," he said over his shoulder, to the body lurking worriedly behind him. "What would you do with me if you did manage to save me? Do you even know?"

"Clark, don't—"

He jumped down, noted the relieved expression in those sharp eyes. "I like the way you say my name," he said. "That Gotham City accent. _Clark—"_ He took a long step forward, reached out a hand and passed a thumb over Bruce's left eyebrow. "I like these. You have the best eyebrows."

 _There._ Clark could see it now, that cold blue light in eyes that watched him, that drew him forward— _irresistible_ —so bright, so piercing.

"They're bushy."

"That makes you look dangerous."

Again, he swiped a thumb over one eyebrow, then the other, leaned in—

"Clark—" Bruce took a step backwards. The look in his eyes became guarded, hooded, and he motioned with a hand to the space between them. "This isn't happening again. I didn't come looking for you to turn this into a suckfest. I saw you on the news. If I recognized you, it's only a matter of time before someone else does, too. I could have reported you but I wanted to talk to you first. You don't know how dangerous this situation is. Morgan Edge is a serious criminal. Even if you think you have everything under control, he's just using you." Bruce reached out, put a patronizing hand on his arm that Clark observed with incredulity and a raised brow. "I can help you," Bruce said. "There are other options. I want us to be friends—"

"Friends."

Bruce continued in a rush of rationalizations, like he was ticking items off of a master list. "You're only seventeen, Clark. You're a high school student who's run away from home, a minor—and the police are looking for you, not to mention your family and friends. The right thing for me to do is to report your whereabouts. I could get fired, _arrested,_ just by hanging around with you—"

Clark shook the hand from his arm, glowered. _Liar._ "You want someone like that guy, your friend, _Harvey._ The one you called to pick you up last weekend."

"Harvey?" Bruce blinked at him. "Harvey has nothing to do with this."

Clark made a disgusted sound of disbelief. "Right. He hasn't told you to stay away from me? That I'm not good enough for you?"

"Harvey's not like that—"

 _No._ This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Clark surged forward, until they fell into the retaining wall and he could pin Bruce there. "Don't lie," he said. _"Don't lie."_ Clark held Bruce up easily and crushed their mouths together. _Only this made sense._ The angel he wanted to possess. _The denial was the lie._ His hands roamed, buried themselves in that marvelous hair. He felt the heat, the pulse of a wildly matched response for an uncountable number of heartbeats, timeless, and the press of hardness against his own. _Only this made sense_ – the fever-like state that opened a door in his brain, at every touch of lips, of skin to skin, showering him with suns and stars, shaking him from end to end.

 _"Clark,"_ Bruce groaned into his mouth, but Clark ignored him, listened to his body, not the lies. "Clark… _no."_

This time, Bruce managed to turn his head away, twist out of arms that reached for him. Still, Clark tried to ignore the words, but the look in those eyes—blazing, scorching—warned him not to go too far. That there _was_ a line, and he crossed it at his own risk.

"We're not doing this," Bruce announced, taking a breath, stepping back. Holding up a hand as if that one movement could stem the tide. "Friends, Clark. This isn't what you need."

Clark scoffed, shook his head. Why was Bruce being so _dense?_ "This is exactly what I need."

"If you refuse to listen to what I'm saying—"

"You'll what? Leave? Never see me again? You won't do that. You can't."

"I can, and I will."

"Like you've managed to stay away so far? You're the one who came looking for me."

"To help you—"

Clark spun, crashed his fists into the hood of the car, barely restraining himself in time not to crush the entire thing into scrap. The car's alarm went off, blaring loudly. "I don't need help. I need—"

 _"Shit!_ What are you _doing?_ That's someone's _car,_ Clark. You can't continue to act like an overgrown child—"

Clark turned away, looked out over Metropolis. "You sound like Jonathan."

"Your father? I'm not trying to be your father—"

Clark glanced over his shoulder, catching Bruce's eyes. "Gee, I would hope not."

Bruce froze for a moment, consternation tight on his face. The tension slowly released into a smile tinged with irony. "No, I don't think I'd want to be your dad."

 _So strange._ Clark smiled, took a deep breath. He'd never bother arguing like this with anyone. No one was worth his time. _But there was something about Bruce Wayne…_

"We'll pick up this argument later," Clark said, brusquely. He zipped up his black leather jacket, and made to pass by Bruce. As he did so, he leaned in and stole a kiss, leaving Bruce sputtering. "We can't be _friends,_ angel, sorry to disappoint. You're either in or you're out." Clark shrugged. "It's up to you. You're the smart one, but if you ask me, we belong together. That should be _obvious,_ even to a prissy tight-ass like you."

Clark continued walking. "I have an appointment. Take the bike. Meet me tomorrow night at ten o'clock over by the old rail yard—you know where I mean?"

Bruce nodded slowly. Clark almost laughed out loud at the confused expression on his face. He threw him his keys.

"Don't be late. If you're not there, I guess I'll know your decision."

Clark galloped over to the stairwell and took the steps down ten flights three at a time, supremely confident that not only would Bruce be at their rendezvous tomorrow night, but they would finally be able to move past this tiresome foreplay. Some things had no other rational conclusion.

+

Bruce knew how to ride a motorcycle, of course. He'd had reason to learn at Princeton, since his frat brother, Lyle, rode one, and Harvey had often insisted they do some crazy stunt or another with the bike when he was particularly bored— _Let's see if we can make a bridge out of the pledges, guys. Whoever loses has to ride the bike naked through the quad. See that girl over there? If you can get her on the bike I'll do your laundry for a month._

But that motorcycle in no way compared to the expensive machine he was now riding, and it only magnified his sense of unease to know there was no legitimate way Clark could have afforded such a luxury. The bike sure was a joy to ride, however, and as Bruce slowly pulled up in front of his building, he decided to call Alfred about getting one of his own. Alfred would likely object, but Bruce was sure he could wear him down with the appropriate assurances that he'd be serious-minded and cautious, and, of course, that he'd only ride the obnoxiously loud thing on the weekends, when proper decorum would not be compromised.

Chuckling, Bruce started to dismount and saw the very subject of his prior thoughts come stumbling out of the lobby. Harvey caught sight of him, stopped short, made a comical pivot to head in his direction, and promptly fell into the potted tree that decorated the entranceway. _Drunk, then._ Bruce sighed. It was two in the morning. He was tired and out of sorts from dealing with the tornado that was Clark Kent, but, apparently, there was to be no rest for the weary. Bruce made quick arrangements with the doorman to leave the bike parked out in front of the building and headed over to rescue his friend.

"Harvey."

He heard snoring, and quickly decided if Harvey had fallen asleep, he was going to leave him there. He wasn't about to carry one hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight anywhere, and he was pretty sure the plant wouldn't mind the company.

"Harvey—"

Harvey groaned, raised his head. "Bru—"

Bruce reached down, tried to help his friend to his feet. "Can you get up? Come on—"

With some cajoling, he managed to get Harvey to his feet and over to the elevator. From there, it was a relatively simple matter to get him out of the elevator, inside the penthouse and across the living room. He dumped Harvey on the couch unceremoniously, sat next to him and struggled to remove his shoes, his tie and his light jacket. All the while, Harvey was making incomprehensible noises, as if he were arguing with himself. Noises Bruce largely ignored as he hurried to finish his task and head to bed, where he'd have the solitude and leisure to replay his whole confusing exchange with Clark over in his head. He needed to figure out exactly where he went wrong—

As he moved to get up from the couch, Harvey's hand reached out and grabbed him by the arm, preventing his retreat.

"Bruce—"

"You okay, Harv?" Looking at his friend's wasted condition, Bruce had to admit that even though it was the summer before Harvey's law school internment, the guy was taking his celebratory partying a bit far.

A hand flailed, slapping at chest, shoulder, demanding attention. Harvey was groggy, but Bruce could see he was trying hard to be coherent. "That bike—" Harvey licked his lips. "Where did you get—that's that kid's bike…what—?"

Bruce patted Harvey on the shoulder, tried to pull his arm free and brush off the questions he didn't want to answer. "It's Clark's bike," he admitted reluctantly. There was no point in denying it, obviously. "He just…" Bruce cast about for the right way to explain, "let me borrow it," he finished, lamely.

A loud hiccup broke the silence. "You saw him tonight," Harvey slurred. The grip on his arm tightened. Eyes, red and agonized, locked on his face beseechingly. "You're _seeing_ him."

Bruce huffed, tried to get Harvey to lie back down by putting a hand to his chest and pushing, but Harvey resisted. "Of course I'm not _seeing_ him. I'm just trying to help him get his life straightened out. He's a kid, Harvey. Get your mind out of the gutter."

 _"He's no kid,"_ Harvey grumped.

An image of Clark flashed in front of his mind's eye, and Bruce had to admit Harvey had a point.

Still, the situation wasn't open for discussion, especially not while Harvey was drunk off his ass.

"You have it all wrong, Harv, regardless. Leave it alone and get some sleep." Again, he tried to push Harvey down onto the couch, take his leave.

"It's not fair," Harvey said, sniffling.

Bruce swore if Harvey started crying he would simply knock him out. There was no way he would put up with Harvey's maudlin dramatics tonight, just no way.

"What's not fair, Harvey? Could you let go of me, please?"

"No."

More piteous sniffling. Clearly, Harvey was distressed, but Bruce couldn't fathom why. "Harvey—"

"My turn. I waited— _years."_

"What are you talking about? Why don't you just go to sleep? This will all seem better in the morning—or whatever." This time, Bruce tugged and pushed simultaneously, with enough force to ensure the desired result…only what was supposed to happen, didn't, and his drunken friend ended up draped all over him as Bruce fell back onto the couch. Still, Harvey's brown eyes were leaking tears. They fell onto his face like raindrops.

"You can't want _him_ …if…I…"

Bruce watched with appalled fascination, as his best friend seemed to gather himself, made a concentrated attempt to more clearly explain himself.

"Why not me? I've— _friends._ You've never _wanted_ anyone. If that's changed, why _him,_ why not me? _Why not me?"_

Startled, Bruce actually jerked his head back when Harvey tried to kiss him, causing the attempt to meet jawline instead of mouth. Harvey didn't seem to mind, or, perhaps, he was just too drunk to realize his mistake. It was more than Bruce could process all at once—his friend, his best friend, revealing… _what, exactly?_ He allowed Harvey to continue kissing his cheek, his neck, as he tried to make sense of the situation. Harvey was drunk…but he sure seemed sincere. Bruce sighed. Harvey had always been…just _Harvey._ His friend, his sometimes confidante, a person who could understand his hopes and dreams and even…shared them to some extent. He had no answer for why _not_ Harvey.

"Listen—" He maneuvered himself out from under the body draped over him to an audible groan of frustration from his friend, but by the time Bruce got to his feet and looked down at the couch, Harvey had already rolled over and passed out—just that quickly. Bruce sighed again, this time with relief, retrieved a blanket from the closet and threw it over the sleeping drunk. He entered his bedroom and shut and locked the door, resolved not to leave his bed until noon.


	9. Little Drops of Anguish

**VIII. Little Drops of Anguish**

_Don't leave me, even for an hour, because_  
_then the little drops of anguish will all run together,_  
 _the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift_  
 _into me, choking my lost heart._

+

_The next morning…at the Wayne penthouse…_

Pancakes could make any late morning full of embarrassing regrets seem much more manageable, Harvey Dent decided. It was almost a law: The Law of Pancakes. You could make a fool out of yourself one night and as long as there were pancakes to be had the next day, all was forgiven. At least, that's what Harvey was counting on as he heard the doorknob to Bruce's bedroom suite turn and the young man himself wander into the living room with a towel over his head, drying his hair.

"Morning," Harvey called out.

The towel was removed, revealing dark, spiky hair, and tossed aside. A black wing rose. "Didn't expect you to be up."

"Oh, last night was nothing," Harvey said, waving the spatula in the air with a self-deprecating flip of the wrist. "Hardly worth talking about." He had made a fool out of himself. He certainly hoped Bruce wouldn't insist upon talking about it.

"I made pancakes." The guarded look in eyes he'd spent many a night trying to dismiss from his mind caused a knot to form in his chest, shortening his breath. He turned towards the stove, cleared his throat. "Want some?"

"Sure."

Harvey made beautiful pancakes, if he did think so himself. They were the perfect complement to the soft sunshine that spilled into the penthouse through the skylights and blurred all the harsh edges, that made it seem as if last night was only a bad dream. As Bruce bustled around the kitchen, securing the syrup, two forks, two glasses, the milk— _But not looking at me. See how his eyes shy away?_ —Harvey decided he wouldn't simply ignore the fact that he had overstepped some invisible boundary with his notoriously reticent and clueless friend, revealed something he would never have revealed under ordinary circumstances; taken all the trust he had spent years perfecting and wasted it on a drunken bout of jealous melancholy. What did Bruce think of him now? _That all I've ever wanted was something_ **from** _him. That my friendship was only a pretense, only a means to an end._

His pancakes—they were perfect. Fit for a prince. Harvey set a plate in front of Bruce and took his own seat. They ate quietly for a minute, maybe three.

The tension was abominable. Finally, Harvey set his fork on his plate carefully. Looked over at his friend who was attacking his stack of pancakes, head down, with the type of concentration likely needed once upon a time for the siege of castles. "Bruce."

Bruce looked up warily.

"You know I was drunk. I didn't mean—"

"Forget about it, Harvey. I wasn't—" Bruce paused. "It was nothing. Let's just forget about it."

Harvey nodded, picked up his fork again and continued eating, but he… _couldn't—_

_Forget about it?_

His fork hit the plate with a clang as it fell to the table. "What if I don't want to forget about it, you ass?"

Startled eyes of twilight stars locked on his face.

"What if I want to talk about it? What if— _just once_ —I wanted you to have something to say that wasn't so focused on _you_ and what you're trying to _accomplish?"_ Harvey warmed to his subject, and his voice rose a little in response. "What if— _just once_ —I wanted to see a crack in that impenetrable Bruce Wayne composure and— _just once_ —I wanted to know that I had caused it, that something I did made a difference to you…"

Harvey stumbled to a halt at the look of utter bewilderment on his friend's face, and sighed. What in the world was he thinking? This was _Bruce_ he was talking to—

"Uh…Harvey…"

"Dammit," Harvey swore, reclaiming his fork and stabbing it into the golden stack viciously. "Leave it to me to make a bad situation worse. Forget everything I just said. Just—eat your pancakes."

"Harvey—"

"Give a guy a break, Bruce, okay?"

"Fine, but—"

"Pancakes."

"I just—"

_"Pancakes."_

Bruce glowered, furrowed his brow stubbornly, but finally complied, picking up his fork and his knife and going about finishing the rest of his breakfast. Harvey breathed a small sigh of relief. It was only after they had finished and Bruce was loading the dishwasher that Harvey realized Gotham's prince had only retreated for a time; he hadn't yet quit the field entirely.

"What in the world were you doing out alone last night, drinking?" Bruce asked, in a conversational tone of voice, as if he was just wondering and wasn't trying to figure out all the inexplicable bits. "And how did you end up wasted on my doorstep?"

"Actually, I was out with the guys. Shark Bar. Seemed like a good idea at the time to walk over here since it's so close by." Harvey shrugged, wandered over to the doors to the terrace and drew the blinds. "The general consensus was that you'd be home—so no one objected to the idea. You always are."

"So they let you wander off alone, drunk off your ass, hoping I'd be home to let you crash on my couch?"

Harvey glanced over his shoulder, smiled ruefully. "Just like the good ole days."

"Yeah, you were always drunk."

"And you were always sober," Harvey agreed slowly, thinking again about the condition he'd found his very proper friend in last weekend, the drunken stupor that was so uncharacteristic of the Bruce Wayne he'd known all through Princeton. The young man of extreme focus, who let nothing and no one derail his meteoric flight past those who were unfortunate enough to be merely human—the incongruity of that scene had haunted him all week. "Seems that's changed."

Bruce turned his back and made his way to the apartment door, opened it and scooped up the newspaper that was there waiting. If Harvey didn't know better, he'd say Bruce's sudden interest in the paper was actually a mask for his discomfort—and the thought increased his own unease.

"I need to know if you're going to be partying the weekend away from now on," Harvey continued with forced levity and a waggle of his eyebrows. "I have to call Alfred with my monthly report…"

"Your monthly report? You're joking."

"I'm not, actually. Way back in your freshman year he asked me to keep an eye on you. Thought you knew."

Bruce's expression was wry, long-suffering. He shook his head and settled on the floor, cross-legged by the couch. He started to unfold the newspaper and spread it out on the floor around him. Harvey knew he should just drop this topic, head home to his own apartment, but, somehow, he just…couldn't. He walked over to the couch, planted himself in the corner and propped his feet up.

"What should I tell him?"

Bruce glanced up. "About what?"

"About what's going on with you. What should I tell him?"

"I don't know. What do you usually tell him?"

"That you're studying hard, focused on your goals. That you're acing everything, like usual, and seem happy. That you spend time with your friends, but you never go overboard with the revelry. That you've been staying out of trouble."

Bruce shrugged. The natural light in the room created a luminescence that caused his pale skin to glow softly, ethereally, and the white t-shirt he wore only emphasized the stark perfection of every feature. Most of the time, it was easy to forget Bruce was only nineteen. Right now, Harvey thought, he looked like the young man he was, not old enough to drink, and not even half as experienced as most of the guys his own age. He was so special, so far above everyone else—

_Who would dare to sully such perfection with the sins and vices, the mistakes and regrets of an ordinary life?_

"That sounds good," Bruce agreed. The newspaper held most of his attention.

"But is it true?"

Bruce put the paper down. "Is what true?"

"That you're okay. Would I be lying if I told Alfred that everything's fine, even though I found you sprawled out on a curb, in the seediest section of Metropolis, drunk, high, and unable to get yourself home? Even though you're running around with some juvenile delinquent, engaged in God knows what—"

"That's enough, Harvey."

Harvey took a death breath, dropped his eyes in the face of such intense disapproval from the one person whose approval meant so much.

"You're my friend, not my keeper," Bruce continued. "And you can tell Alfred anything you like. I know what I'm doing—even if it doesn't look like it."

"You know what you're doing? I suppose your new best friend bought that motorcycle with his allowance money?" His voice was unacceptably sarcastic. This was _Bruce._ Being combative certainly wasn't the way to reach him. Harvey tried to calm himself. "You're the one who wants to be the detective. Don't let that kid pull you around by the nose."

Bruce got to his feet in an explosion of arms and legs. "Pull me around by the nose? What are you talking about?" He stormed over to the refrigerator and grabbed a small bottle of water. He opened it with a savage jerk. "I'm simply trying to help him. I can't just walk away; I don't want to. I know I can get through to him in time. This is one situation I can fix—"

Harvey got up, followed Bruce into the kitchen. "Have you considered he might be playing you for your money? You don't even know him. A kid like that—"

"A kid like what, Harvey?" Voice low, eyes dangerously glinting.

Harvey ran a hand through his hair, reached out to Bruce imploringly. "Listen, I'm sorry, okay? I'm just worried about you. It's obvious to me that the kid's in over his head. The people he's involved with make his situation dangerous, not just for him, but for everyone around him. I'm just trying to do what I've always done—look out for my best friend."

His explanation seemed to defuse Bruce's anger, because Gotham's prince sipped at his water and leaned against the kitchen counter. Moments went by without either of them saying anything.

Finally, Bruce deposited the plastic bottle in the recyclable bin. He had that determined set to his features that Harvey recognized. Bruce had refocused his energy and had made his own decision—and nothing in the world would change it.

"I'm where I am today because of the kindness of strangers. Alfred, Leslie, even you. I'm just trying to return the favor, and, besides, you're overreacting."

"Not everyone can be fixed," Harvey said quietly, turning his back. He didn't want Bruce to see the disappointment, the sinking desperation he was sure was written all over his face. Images assailed him: of Bruce pressed against the wall of a back alley; of the dazed look in his eyes; of the way that kid held onto him and kissed him—like Bruce was some prized _possession;_ the appalling fact that Bruce had let him; the way the kid smirked, like he was supremely confident of his _right_ to lay hands on someone who was too good for him to even _think_ about; the marks left on perfect skin. The thought of Bruce around that viper of a kid made Harvey sick to his stomach. He walked over to the couch, sank onto it. He kept his head down. He didn't want to have to explain his reaction to his friend.

When Bruce moved back into the living room, Harvey looked up and got to his feet. "I think I'll head out."

"You don't have to," Bruce said. "I'm going over to the dojo. You can stay and watch the game, if you want."

Harvey glanced over at Bruce's flat screen television that took up half the wall, thought of his own nineteen-inch contraption from college that tinged everything green and was waiting for him in his own apartment. He nodded in agreement and sat back down.

"If you insist," he said, reaching for the remote.

Bruce grinned and headed towards the door. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"You want me to call some of the guys? We can hang out here—"

"I have that academy fundraiser tonight."

"You have a date?"

"Karen."

"Karen?" Harvey chuckled. "Get out."

"She's a nice girl—"

"Uh—yeah, if you're into big…feet." Harvey choked back a laugh.

"Shut up, Harvey."

+

_Meet me tomorrow night at ten o'clock over by the old rail yard…_

The academy fundraiser started at nine. There was no way for him to make both appointments. Bruce checked his watch. If he planned to blow off the fundraiser and Karen, he'd have to make the call now.

_Don't be late. If you're not there, I guess I'll know your decision._

Why was Clark so irrationally officious? Why couldn't he be a person Bruce could simply call on the phone to explain he'd be late, or that he'd have to reschedule due to a prior engagement? Bruce had the gut feeling if he missed this date with Clark the kid was liable to close himself off entirely, just out of spite. Bruce would lose any trust he'd gained with him. It might even blow the whole operation entirely.

Operation. Bruce ran a hand through his hair. It almost sounded like he really knew what he was doing. Who was he kidding?

Bruce picked up the phone, started dialing Karen's number.

The truth was…complicated. Even though he knew it would be a major mistake on his part to miss an event that all recruits were expected to attend, Bruce had little…interest…in spending the evening with his classmates and superiors, at a function where he'd again be singled out as the rich kid from Princeton who had gotten it in his head to go slumming. The kid who owned an international conglomerate and didn't even need to work for a living, and certainly not as a police officer—but that was another story. He could already hear Harvey laughing at him for thinking he'd fit in with…

Besides, Clark _needed_ him.

Karen answered the phone on the third ring, and Bruce lied like a champ.

+

_Later that night…on the lower east side of Metropolis…_

Kal, formerly known as Clark Kent and still known as such to a certain stubborn Gothamite who was just now arriving on the motorcycle he had provided, allowed a slow, anticipatory smile to spread across his face. Bruce looked good. Damn good. Seemed he had decided to get with the program in a pair of black jeans and a black and yellow leather racing jacket. He almost looked like he fit in with the street locals who were congregating under the bridge, while still maintaining that "hands-off" aura that as much as shouted he was too good for any of the clowns who were watching his progress as he slowly circled the area on the bike. Clark licked his lips. Losers, every single one of them. Didn't they know? The angel belonged to _him._

He stalked in Bruce's direction.

+

When Bruce pulled under the old metal bridge that led to the entranceway of the abandoned rail yard and saw the gathering of people, he figured it was time to seriously reassess his decision to deal with Clark on his own level.

Clark's current level was…clearly not one he was familiar with.

Headlights illuminated the area where guys and girls were sitting on tricked out American-made cars or standing by motorcycles in clusters. Slowly, Bruce circled the area, looking for Clark. It was with no small amount of relief that he spotted him with three guys who looked a good five years older than him, sitting on the hood of a black car, smoking and drinking beer from cans.

Clark spotted him and stalked over.

"You made it."

"You didn't actually leave much room for any other choice."

Clark grinned. "It's easier that way."

"For you."

Clark reached out, fingered the collar of his leather jacket, the one he had convinced himself he…needed…if he was going to ride Clark's motorcycle. After all, all things had a proper decorum; Alfred had always said as much.

"I'm glad you're here, angel," Clark said, smiling wide. "You look good."

Bruce killed the ignition and got off the bike. Narrowed his eyes at the tall, blue-eyed young man in jeans and a black sleeveless t-shirt who looked so comfortable surrounded by the city's less savory element, with his can of beer in one hand and his eyes that swept over Bruce hungrily, from head to toes. "What are we doing here, Clark?"

"A little bit of business," Clark said, "a little bit of pleasure." He threw an arm around Bruce's shoulders and steered him over to the group of guys who were now eyeing Bruce appraisingly. "I wanted you to meet some of my friends."

"These are your friends?"

Clark snorted, brushed a thumb over a cheek, sending a shiver up his spine.

"Of a sort, angel," Clark answered in a low voice by his ear. "Of a sort."

It was easy to see these so-called friends were the disreputable kind—out of school, out of work, existing to prey upon others to bankroll their wild lifestyle. Bruce very much wanted to pull Clark away, remove him from this association with people who could only be a bad influence, but Clark seemed to have the situation under control, and even to command an amount of respect that was incongruent, given his age.

_What's up later tonight, Kal?_

_Yeah, Kal, you're right. I should have thought of that._

_I took care of that for you, Kal._

Clark did have a certain…something…that commanded attention; that was fascinating, haughty in the way of the very rich or the very famous. Almost…aristocratic, like he was the master of all he surveyed by right of birth. Bruce recognized the attitude. Rarely had he seen it serve anyone well.

Again, he asked, "What are we doing here. Why don't we just go—" He reached out, turned Clark away from an argument that was escalating over someone who owed someone money.

Clark smiled, lazily. "Can't leave yet. We're racing."

_"Racing?"_

"Yeah, racing. What do you think we're here for, blue eyes?"

"I'm not—"

"Don't think you can keep up? You could always wait for me on the sidelines." He smirked. "I'll wear your favor and will win one for my lady-love."

"Funny. Why don't you just _tell_ me what you're talking about?"

Clark draped an arm over his shoulders and pulled him away from the others, talking low in his ear. "See them over there? And them? And those guys over there. They're street crews, affiliated groups of guys who race under the same colors."

"Which one do you belong to?"

"None of them. That's where you come in. No single rider can win a street race against the crews. Riders from the same crew protect each other's back, make it so at least one rider is in a position to win, at the expense of the others."

"What does this have to do with us?"

"You're going to race. I'll have your back. You'll win, and we'll clean these guys out. Simple."

"Simple? You're going to bet money on me winning a race when I don't even know the course?"

"We start there." Clark pointed. "We go across the tracks, down along the reservoir, up the side over there, and back around. Don't worry about it. You'll follow me, until the end. Then I'll fall back, and you'll go on to win."

Bruce shook his head. Shrugged out of Clark's grasp. "That's the stupidest plan I've ever heard. The two of us against all of them. How exactly are you going to watch my back?"

Clark tapped a finger against Bruce's chest cockily. "Don't you worry about the details. I have it covered."

Bruce's look was incredulous. "You have it covered? You're crazy. I'm going home."

He turned away, fuming.

"I'm just going to race anyway," Clark called out after him. "I could get hurt, you know. These races can be dangerous, especially for a lone rider."

Bruce paused for a moment, then kept walking.

"Wait, angel, come on." Clark trotted up to his side. "Stop being such a wet blanket. Do this and I'll—do something for you."

Bruce stopped, turned. "Like what?"

Clark shrugged. "I don't know. What do you want?"

"I want you to tell me everything you know about Morgan Edge. Every last detail of your dealings with him; anything you might have picked up."

"Why? So you can arrest him?" Clark mocked, but at Bruce's hard look, he frowned and shrugged. "Fine. If that's what you want. I've picked up a thing or two about his operations. I could tell you what I know. But don't come running to me if you get yourself in trouble."

"So we have a deal?" Bruce stuck out his hand.

"Sure." Clark took his hand, shook it for a moment, but then tugged Bruce forward and kissed him—hard and fast. "Sealed with a kiss."

Bruce sputtered. He looked around to see who was watching them and was gratified to find little attention was being paid to them in the dim light.

Again, Clark draped an arm over his shoulders and pulled him in the direction of a large group of guys. "How much money do you have on you, angel? I want you to place it all on yourself to win—"

+

The plan went better than Clark had expected, until the very end. The angel was exactly that—amazing to watch in full flight, with the wind in his hair and the flush of impending victory on his face. He was better on the motorcycle than Clark had expected, a natural talent. He would have been in contention without Clark's protection, but when the vultures swooped in, trying to undercut him, cause him to blow out, knock him off his bike—hurt him—Clark was there. With the judicious use of his heat vision, he kept them all away, and his angel swept over the finish line first—just like he'd planned.

"Pay up," he demanded of the pit guy on their behalf, keeping one steel hand on Bruce's forearm so he wouldn't be whisked away in the raucous celebration. The guy's name was Mark. He was a member of one of the losing crews, one that Clark had just decimated, and Clark wasn't one of his favorite guys. In fact, they'd had many a run in before, which didn't matter at all at the moment. The guy was a clown. All Clark wanted was his money.

"You cheated. I don't know how you cheated, but I'm not paying you a dime."

Clark's voice lowered to a dangerous growl. "You'll pay me. The easy way, or the hard way. Your choice."

What happened next happened in a quick blur of action. Mark hit him, and the place erupted in motion as the guy fell to his knees, holding his broken hand and crying in pain. Clark was busy smirking when he felt a tug on his arm and he remembered he wasn't alone. He had Bruce to protect—and, _goddammit,_ he hadn't wanted to have to protect anyone ever again. The situation deteriorated into a free for all, and Mark's crew made straight for them, but he needn't have worried. Bruce was a natural disaster all on his own, and had the kung-fu thing going on. His hands and feet were flying, deadly accurate, and Clark could tell immediately that his angel could hold his own—which answered the question of how much force Clark should use to get them out of there. They fought, back to back, protecting each other's blind side, and though Clark could have decimated all comers, he didn't. He was having too much fun.

He wasn't sure how it happened—later, when he tried to figure out what had gone wrong. He heard a gun cock, somewhere in the distance, and immediately knew Bruce was in danger. He saw the bullet flying in slow motion, and knocked it out of the air before it could hit its target. But while he was taking care of one potential disaster, another struck—a bottle to the head—and Bruce fell forward, blood gushing everywhere. Clark caught him before he could hit the ground. In a burst of speed, he had them away from the fray and safe on a street corner a mile away.

Bruce was unconscious. His face was deathly pale, and perfect, and marred by blood that oozed slowly from a deep gash towards the front of his hairline. Clark held him in his arms and didn't know what to do.

Hospital.

In a moment he was there, at the emergency room entrance, passing his unconscious charge over to the doctors. Someone put Bruce's jacket in his hands as he was placed on a gurney and wheeled away. The jacket was soaked in blood. Clark was covered in it—

_The blood of someone who cares about him._

A woman was talking to him, asking him questions, but it was like the sound of voices at the other end of a tunnel, distant and easily ignored. They touched him, asking if he was hurt, but he shrugged them off and walked to a secluded alcove where he rifled through the pockets of Bruce's jacket until he located his phone. He flipped through the contact list. He found the number he wanted and made the call.

+

Harvey arrived at the hospital in a panic. The kid had told him nothing meaningful over the phone, other than Bruce was in the hospital. What was Bruce doing in the hospital? What had happened? Why—?

Then he saw him. Tall and blue-eyed and covered in his friend's blood. Harvey could only stare, frozen and appalled. The kid walked over to him.

"What have you done?"

The kid refused to look at him, and Harvey, spurred into motion by a blinding fury that turned the edges of his vision as red as the blood on the kid's shirt, grabbed him and shook him until the kid relented and looked him in the eyes. _"What have you done?"_

"He's unconscious," the kid said. His tone lacked all inflection. "They stitched up his head. He should come around soon they said." He shrugged off Harvey's hands and pushed something into his chest. "This is his jacket."

The kid backed away.

"I don't want to see him again. You tell him that. Tell him to stay away from the club. He won't find me there. Tell him I said to stop slumming. I don't want anything to do with him. Ever."

"You should never have been near him in the first place."

The kid scowled disdainfully, and Harvey had the distinct feeling the kid knew his every secret, had somehow intuited every feeling he had kept hidden for so long, and mocked him for his lack of courage.

"And whose fault is that? He came looking for _me._ Make him stay where he belongs."

The kid turned and walked away.

Harvey's hands tightened on the blood-splotched jacket. He swore if it was the last thing he ever did, he'd make sure Bruce stayed where he belonged—with him and nowhere near that kid.

+

Another telephone booth, another instance when the red ring was pulled from his finger, dropped to the ground. Another silent call.

_Clark, is that you? Honey, please—please come home…_

Another miserable night when the brand on his chest burned like every mistake he had ever made, and he fell, screaming and thrashing and crying, wanting to take it all back, change everything he had done wrong, without knowing how.

Finding the same answers as he had before—his only solace lay in numbness, his only relief not to care at all. His only option to put the ring back on.


	10. Wing of the Silence

**IX. Wing of the Silence**

_You must know that I do not love **and** that I love you,_  
_because everything alive has its two sides;_  
_a word is one wing of the silence,_  
_fire has its cold half._

+

Consciousness returned in slow increments. Bruce was first aware of the throbbing pain, the bright light; then a sense of self returned, and he realized he was lying in bed. A white space came into focus—white walls, white curtains, white sheets—and rational thought identified his surroundings as a hospital room. Last, he recognized Harvey sitting in a chair by his bedside, brown hair mussed and looking as worried as a mother hen. When Harvey realized his eyes were open, he sat up straight in his chair, expelled a deep breath, and broke into a wide, relieved smile.

"Glad to see you decided to wake up, slugger."

Bruce reached up to feel the bandages wrapped around his head. "What happened? Where am I?" His voice was rusty and dry. He motioned for Harvey to pour him a glass of water.

"Metropolis General."

Harvey passed him the glass. Bruce sipped from it gratefully.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," Harvey said, running a hand through his hair. "You tell me."

A moment's concentration, and it all came rushing back: the motorcycle, the race—the fight. _Clark—_

"Clark—"

"Gone, and good riddance."

"How did you—?"

"He called me. Found my number in your cell phone, I guess. Told me you'd been hurt and I should come to the hospital. I raced over here, of course." Harvey paused. "I was scared to death. He wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. I thought you'd been shot or something."

"I'm sorry, Harvey—"

Harvey got up abruptly, walked over to the window. Bruce was able to take a better look at him and the rumpled state of his clothing. It was clear he'd been sitting in the room for quite some time. Bruce also noticed the lightening sky through the glass over his friend's shoulder. It was early morning. He must have been unconscious for hours.

"The kid was in the emergency room waiting area when I got here." Harvey turned, stared at him accusingly. "He was covered in your blood, Bruce. _Your blood."_

"Where is he?"

"How the hell should I know? Hopefully, back under whatever rock he crawled out from under—"

"You made him leave?"

"Geez, Bruce, listen to yourself! Made him leave? I couldn't _make_ that kid do anything he didn't want to do if I tried. He left—under his own steam. Couldn't get out of here fast enough, actually. Said he had better things to do, and he didn't want to waste any more time on _you."_

"He said that?"

"And quite a few other things—like to tell you to mind your own business, and to stay clear of him, not to try to look for him. That he'd had enough of you following him around, and wouldn't be at the club, so go back to your own life and leave him alone."

Bruce frowned. Had Clark said those things? Harvey wouldn't lie, but—

No, whatever Clark had _said,_ he hadn't meant it. Whatever had prompted Clark to say those things to Harvey, Bruce knew the truth. All he had to do was remember those split seconds before he'd lost consciousness, when he had somehow found himself in Clark's arms, looking up into blue sky vistas that were exactly, _exactly,_ the eyes he remembered from so long ago, when they had first met, that night at the Princeton Club—the eyes he thought he'd never see again. Eyes filled with panic and concern _for him._ He wasn't sure how Clark had gotten him away from the fight, and across town to the hospital—but he had. He had called Harvey, and had left only after Harvey had arrived. Those weren't the actions of someone who didn't _care._

"When can I get out of here?"

Harvey glanced at his watch, then at the door. "Uh—"

Bruce looked at him askance. "Tell me you didn't call Alfred."

"Me? Call Alfred?" Harvey shuffled his feet, stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "No, no, of course not…."

Bruce's gaze hardened.

"Okay, I called Alfred—but you were unconscious, for chrissakes! I was afraid something would go wrong! Then what would I do?"

Bruce sighed. "Is he on his way?"

Harvey ducked his head guiltily. "He said something about the next flight out."

"Dammit. Give me the phone."

+

_The next week…at night…outside of Clark's apartment building…_

Sitting in his car, watching the groups of people enter and exit Clark's apartment complex, Bruce had to admit he was nervous. It had been over a week since he'd seen Clark, a week spent under the watchful and tender care of his guardian, Alfred. A week spent doing everything he could to convince Alfred he was fine; that his injury was a result of a simple accident, and Alfred should go back to Gotham and his duties there. With Alfred staying at the penthouse, there was no opportunity for Bruce to do anything other than what he was supposed to be doing—his guardian would have noticed any deviation from his normal routine and would have insisted upon staying until he had it all figured out and fixed to his satisfaction. So the past week he'd been unable to do the one thing he had desperately wanted to do: find Clark and make sure he was okay.

The first few days he had even been worried Clark might take it upon himself to track him down to check on his condition, and he and Alfred might run into one another—then he would never have gotten Alfred to leave. But days of worry turned into a pervasive sense of…disappointment, and an anxious desperation to be free to find the young man from Smallville, look him in the eyes and have him say he never wanted to see him again directly to his face—

But now that he was sitting outside of Clark's apartment building, and the confrontation he had been so eager to initiate was within his grasp, he found it hard to force himself to get out of the car. _What if…_

Another clutch of people were being buzzed into the complex, and if Bruce expected to gain entrance on the tail end of the group, he'd have to go now—

He got out of the car, jogged across the street, and called out for a blond girl to hold the gate.

Previous reconnaissance served him well. He knew exactly where to find Clark's apartment, but he needn't have worried. All he had to do was follow the people who had let him through the gate, and as they got closer to their destination, the sound of loud music that led them to the right door.

One of the girls knocked. They all waited. Finally, the door was jerked opened. A short guy in a black t-shirt waved them into the dark interior of an apartment filled with people, and smoke, and music loud enough to drown out conversation.

Bruce entered the apartment with a sense of trepidation, coughing at the smoke and squinting, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the blue-tinged darkness. He had wanted to talk to Clark, but he hadn't expected to navigate a house party to get to him. He was tempted to leave, return another time—but he was here now, and leaving without at least _seeing_ Clark wasn't…well, it wasn't what he _wanted._

Slowly, he started making his way through the large apartment, searching for a certain young man he felt like he hadn't seen in ages.

Clark wasn't hard to find. He was bright like a flame, sitting on a sofa in the living room with a group of people not quite young enough to be his own age, but clearly not quite legal. There was a girl stretched out across his lap, face down, and Clark had his large hand on her ass. Bruce froze. Watched Clark's hand rise and fall, rise and fall. Watched as the girl squirmed and giggled, though the music was too loud for Bruce to make out her voice. It was then that Clark looked in his direction, stilled as their eyes met. Bruce supposed he should be gratified by the look of complete surprise on Clark's face, but all he felt was anger and a spiraling sense of self-loathing for thinking—

There was a bathroom directly in front of him. Bruce made for it. A girl exited the room just as he reached the door. Bruce entered, locked himself in; took a deep breath and a moment to stare at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot already, from the heavy smoke in the outer rooms. The gash in his forehead was mostly closed—they had removed the stitches two days ago—but it was red and ugly, and his hair didn't quite cover it properly. What the _hell_ was he doing here?

Harvey was right: somehow he'd lost his mind.

He threw some water on his face, dried off with a towel hanging on a rack by the shower.

When he opened the bathroom door, Clark was there, waiting. Bruce shook his head, tried to push past, but Clark blocked his way and was as immovable as a ton of bricks.

"What are you doing here, angel?"

Clark's eyes were bored, cold. Bruce wanted to laugh out loud at the irony. Instead, he scowled.

"I was just asking myself the same question."

"How did you find me?"

"Believe it or not, you're not that difficult to find."

"I told your friend I didn't want to see you."

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I know what you told Harvey."

"So what part of 'stay away from me' didn't you understand?"

Bruce raised his chin, glared daggers. "Oh, I understood—perfectly."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"You owe me, Clark—"

"Kal."

 _"Clark."_ Bruce had had enough. He pushed at Clark's chest—hard—causing the young man to take a startled step backwards. "We had a deal. I race, you tell me _everything_ about Morgan Edge. You don't get to just blow me off before you make good on your promise. You don't want me here? Fine, I'll go. We don't have to do this now, but we _will_ do this. You'll tell me everything I want to know. Pick a time and a place and I'll be there."

Bruce was fuming, and Clark was staring at him so impassively, as if nothing he said actually registered. Minutes went by, and Clark made no response to his demands at all. It was enough to make Bruce want to hit him—

Until a hand came up, softly, brushed the hair from his forehead. Gently traced the outline of the gash there.

"How is this?"

Bruce swatted his hand away. "Like you care."

Clark smiled, a half smile of ruefulness. "I missed you, angel."

Bruce frowned. "Right. Just pick a time and place—"

"You're here now," Clark said, shrugging. "If you want to talk about Edge, you'll have to stay. We can talk—afterwards. Right now I'm busy having fun." Clark stepped back. "You should try it." He turned, and over his shoulder said, "Make yourself at home, angel. Lots of stuff to do to pass the time."

"Fuck." Bruce kicked the wall as Clark walked away. "Fucker." Did he expect him to just sit around and wait—?

_"Asshole."_

Bruce stormed into the living room and found an armchair in a dark corner. He sat down to wait. It didn't help that Clark had rejoined his friends, and was on the other side of the room doing…all kinds of things that a teen his age shouldn't be doing. All Bruce could do was watch—while trying not to act like he was watching. It was as if the two of them were engaged in some sort of cold war—Clark, doing any outrageous thing to get a rise out of him; Bruce, determined to ignore him. Both waiting to see who would give in first. But if Clark was trying to make him leave with his outrageous behavior, just so he could get out of his end of the deal, he'd better be prepared to be disappointed, Bruce decided. He hardly cared what Clark was doing—in fact, he didn't care at all. He simply wanted to make sure Edge got what was coming to him. Bruce settled back in his chair, glowered across the room. Clark's antics were a mere annoyance.

Sometime later, Bruce noticed Clark whispering in a girl's ear and pointing in his direction. Bruce watched warily as the girl disappeared into the kitchen and then reappeared with an open bottle of beer. She walked over, smiled, and made to pass him the bottle. Bruce tried to decline, but she was persistent, and wouldn't leave him alone until he at least took the bottle from her. He had no intention of drinking it, and left it sitting on the floor by the chair, but as the night wore on, and he became more and more aggravated, the idea of drinking the beer seemed a relief. He had never been much of a drinker in college, but that didn't mean he never indulged. He had often had a bottle in hand at frat parties to not stand out from the crowd—he simply never overdid it, or did much of it at all. The end of any party would usually find he'd drank not even half of the bottle of beer he'd been nursing all night.

But _this_ night, before he'd even realized it, he had finished the first bottle and had another one passed to him by the same girl, who apparently had been assigned by Clark— _the asshole_ —to take care of his needs. Three beers later, he was feeling the effects of the alcohol and the smoke. The fourth beer set the room spinning. The fifth had him seeing spots and strange configurations before his eyes.

He tried to get up. He had a desperate need to go to the bathroom. Stumbling across the room, it seemed infinitely harder than before to point himself in the direction of where he knew the bathroom to be, and he ended up entangled with strange hands that were touching his arms and shoulders, and the back of his neck. Swatting the hands away, he finally made it to the bathroom door. He tripped over his own feet getting inside and to the toilet. He unzipped his pants, relieved himself in what he thought to be the correct general direction of the bowl, zipped up and turned to find some strange guy—tall, even taller than Clark, his mind seemed to think—standing in the open doorway, grinning. Bruce shook his head, made to push past, but there were hands on him again, and a wet whisper right by his ear. The space was too small for him to escape, and the room was starting to spin again, regardless, but just as he was about to lose it, Clark was there, and the other guy had disappeared. The relief Bruce felt as _Clark's_ arm closed around his waist to support him was overwhelming.

"Taking care of you is a full time job, angel. Come on."

"You're an _ass,"_ Bruce mumbled.

"Not a big enough ass for you to go the hell home. Watch your step."

"Where—?"

"In here. No one will bother you."

Clark led him through a door and deposited him on a large bed that Bruce fell over into with relief. Everything was still spinning, and dark, amorphous shapes were forming on the edges of his vision.

"Go to sleep. I'll check on you later."

The sound of a doorknob turning, and Bruce knew that Clark was about to leave him—here, in what was looking more and more like a dark night in Gotham, with every nightmare that he'd ever struggled with waiting for him to be left alone to be devoured. He felt the panic rise in his throat.

"Don't leave—"

He knew Clark had stopped because he didn't hear the door close.

_"Please—"_

He heard the sound, _click,_ and the despair rose up, threatening to drown him, until he felt the saving touch. Clark settle on the bed beside him. Bruce shifted and wrapped his arms around Clark's midsection, clung to him like the last deep-rooted tree in the middle of a storm, and for a time, all the nightmares were kept at bay, and all the hungers and the longings of his life were answered.

+

Waking up in someone else's bed with no memory of what transpired during the night was not a welcome feeling, and one Bruce was not at all familiar with. Besides his complete disorientation and pounding headache, he was relieved to find he was no worse for wear. At least he was still clothed—

But he was also alone, and although he remembered little of last night past a certain point, he did remember this was Clark's apartment, and he had at one point been in the bed _with_ him. Where was he now?

The bedroom was empty, the rest of the apartment was a shambles but was empty, too. Bruce was about to give up and start the trek back to the penthouse when he heard a key in the door. Clark entered with a bag under one arm. He froze when he saw Bruce, but then continued to the kitchen as if nothing was wrong. Bruce followed.

"Clark—"

"Angel."

Bruce took a deep breath, steadied himself on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, leaned against a counter stool. "What happened last night?"

"You passed out."

"I know that. What else?"

Clark shrugged. "Nothing. I put you to bed. You passed out. Most everyone left around three. You had just calmed down, so I let you sleep."

"Calmed down…?"

"You're definitely not a happy drunk."

Bruce remembered. The nightmares. "That wasn't drunk…that was…drugged." He skewered Clark with an accusing glare. "You drugged me."

Again, Clark shrugged. "I didn't, but Julia might have. You were sitting in that chair like you had a stick up your ass. She probably thought she was doing you a favor. Ecstasy, meth, maybe."

"I don't believe you—"

"Don't believe me. I don't care. But don't blame me. I told you—you don't belong here. This scene is not your speed. You're going to get yourself hurt."

"It's not my speed, but it's your speed?"

Bruce watched as Clark pulled a half-gallon carton of orange juice from the bag, opened it, and started drinking. "Exactly." Clark burped, put his juice on the counter, and reached into the bag again. "Here." He threw a rolled-up newspaper in Bruce's direction. "Figured you're the type to read that." Again into the bag, this time he pulled out coffee and a bagel. "Here." He slid both across the counter like an offering. "Figured you were the coffee type."

"Thanks."

An awkward silence fell as Clark continued to guzzle juice directly from the carton, and Bruce sipped his coffee. This was the first time… _ever_ …he'd been around Clark in normal surroundings in the bright light of day. It seemed…harder to find anything at all to say to him without the loud music drowning out rational thought, the press of people, the dark shadows that blurred the edges of reality, especially when Clark seemed so normal, and harmless, and…young…standing there, eyeing him warily from behind a carton of juice.

Bruce checked his watch, took stock of his clothes that were sloppy and wrinkled. He had class in a couple of hours. If he left now, he'd have enough time to drive over to the penthouse to shower and change, even if he hit traffic.

He pushed his half-finished coffee to the middle of the counter, and pushed himself up from the high chair he was leaning on. "I guess I should go," he said, looking away from Clark and towards the door.

"You could…"

He turned. His eyes found Clark's. "What?"

Clark moved towards the sink. Found a glass and started filling it with water from the faucet. "You could stay. I have clothes that would fit you."

Surprise robbed him of words. He watched as Clark's broad back rose and fell in a shrug.

"You said you wanted to talk about Morgan Edge."

Bruce stood frozen in place as Clark turned, glass of water in hand and an arrogantly challenging look on his face, the same look Clark often wore, but this time, in the bright morning light, Bruce could more clearly see the flecks of vulnerability in blue eyes that studied him, trying so hard to seem as if his answer was of no importance.

"Where's my jacket?"

"You're leaving."

"I need my phone. I have to call in sick."

+

_Sometime later that day…in front of Clark's apartment building…_

He focused the telescopic lens and snapped three quick pictures as Kal exited the apartment complex. The guy Kal had with him was young—not much older than Kal, he thought. Looked to be a brother or a cousin or some other family member—with that dark hair, blue eyes and tall athletic build. He snapped more pictures as the two of them climbed into a silver Mercedes, making sure to get a few good close-ups of the guy's face. Kal had hangers on like lint on a cheap suit, but this new kid was something else. He thought the boss would be happy with his report this time. After weeks of watching Kal use and discard people like trash, it looked to him like they'd finally found some leverage.

+

"Where are we going?" Bruce asked, as he turned the key in the ignition.

Clark grinned, adjusted the passenger's seat so there was enough room for his long legs and leaned back. "You wanted to know about Morgan Edge. There are things I can show you. Take the west side to the docks. Pier sixty-three. Park by the brewery."

Clark closed his eyes, content with the silence. He felt lazy, overly relaxed. It had seemed a good idea to let Bruce drive, rather than take the motorcycle. His car was expensive but not flashy. Comfortable, _like his company,_ Clark decided, and for a moment Clark almost regretted his decision. It would have been nice to have the wind in his hair, but the moment passed. He was happy to let the angel drive for a change. _Why?_ No reason, except he liked his company, and he could tell that having some control over their excursion made him happy. Clark wasn't sure when exactly it had started to matter to him that Bruce was safe or happy or anything else, really. Maybe it had happened when he realized Bruce was the type that could hold his own, that would stand back-to-back with him against all comers. Maybe it was the blood, or the look in sharp eyes that begged him to be worthy of his trust before inky lashes fluttered closed. Possibly, it was his persistence—no matter how hard Clark tried to push him away, he seemed to always be there, showing up at any unexpected moment, with an anger and a ridiculous sense of entitlement that was more endearing than anything else.

Possibly— _probably_ —it had something to do with the way Bruce held onto him through the night, like a lifeline, and the terrible sobs that racked his body, the piteous cries for forgiveness, and the tears. The words that expressed a heartfelt desire to give anything to have a past moment to do over again. _He knew exactly how that felt._ Clark's hands had been the only things able to calm him, the slow stroking of ebony feathers, the fingers that wiped tears from pale cheeks. Maybe.

_Maybe._

"We're going to check out one of Edge's operations?" Bruce gave him a sidelong glance.

"Where I meet him to pick up assignments. It's an Intergang distribution point. Drugs, smuggled goods, stolen artwork."

"Assignments?"

"I do a little…collection work from time to time."

Clark watched Bruce frown. It almost made him laugh out loud, but he knew how prickly the angel could be, and restrained himself. He didn't want to argue.

"It's not as bad as it sounds. I retrieve stolen merchandise from criminals for criminals. Is it really theft if the item you steal is stolen in the first place?"

"You shouldn't be—"

"Uh-uh. That's not part of our deal, angel. I said I'd tell you about Edge, not listen to you moralizing. I could get that in Smallville."

"Well, if you'd just go home—"

"I'm not going home. Turn here."

Bruce was silent, and Clark could tell that he had pissed him off, though for the life of him he hadn't been trying to. Did he really expect him to pick up and go home? Just because he thought Clark should? Rich guys. Always thinking that they should have their way—

Bruce nodded his head in the direction of the large building that was three blocks up and to the left. "That's the warehouse?"

Clark nodded. "Everything that Intergang funnels in or out of Metropolis goes through that building at some point."

"It looks like a legit operation. I wonder why no one has raided the building."

"Customs officers on the take."

Bruce glanced at him sharply. "You know that for a fact?"

"Names, descriptions and badge numbers." Clark grinned.

"How could you know that?"

"I make it my business to know, and I have resources that ordinary people don't have."

Bruce turned in his seat, unbuckled his seatbelt. "Like what? What resources?"

"A story for another time, angel. Now exactly what do you want to know about Edge?"

Every question Bruce thought to ask, Clark provided an answer. At one point, when Bruce shook his head in amazement and started reaching around under the passenger's seat for pen and paper to take notes, Clark couldn't help but grin smugly. The rich frat boy from Gotham had thought he was in over his head; that he needed to be saved from the vicious clutches of a gangster. Now, he understood Clark had everything under control.

"How did you find out about all this?" Bruce asked, incredulously. "How do you remember everything?"

"Right place, right time. Anything else you need to know, angel? That should be enough to keep you busy. Just don't do anything without checking with me first. Edge has something I need."

"Clark, what could you possibly need from a criminal? Any help you need—"

"I don't need help."

"Then what—"

"A new identity. A whole new life, away from Smallville, where no one, especially not the Kents, can find me." He opened the car door with a jerk as Bruce stared at him. "Come on. I have to check in."

Clark led Bruce around to the back of the facility, to a door that let them into the building in an unused storage area. Bruce was quiet, glaring in his direction, but this wasn't the time for them to argue about his life. He had a job to do. If Bruce wanted to know what it was all about, he'd have to keep quiet and save his objections for later.

They climbed from the storage room up to the loft level where he took Bruce to a point where he could easily see the floor below and pushed him up against a wall.

"Listen to me," Clark said in a low voice. "This loft runs the circumference of the building. You can take a look around without being seen from up here if you're quiet and careful. You would think that a building like this would have security all over the place, but it doesn't. Everyone who's anyone knows this is Intergang, and no one—from rival gangs, to the cops, to the customs agents—would be stupid enough to try anything here. That means there are only a couple of crews of guys who patrol the main floor, and a group of guys who run the loading docks. Edge has personal bodyguards but they're always with him in his office. The only time there are more guys in here are on the days when a major shipment of narcotics is going in or coming out. Today, nothing's scheduled, so just stay up here—"

"Where are you going?"

"I have a meeting with Edge," Clark explained. "I shouldn't be long. Stay here and be quiet."

"Wait—"

Clark put a finger to his lips and disentangled himself from Bruce. He turned and went back the way they had come in, intending to re-enter through the loading docks as was his usual routine.

His business with Edge was filled with the usual posturing, the usual baiting of his bodyguards, payment, a new assignment. Edge was unusually accommodating, however, and Clark made a note to check on him later, when he didn't have Bruce in tow, just to make sure Edge wasn't up to anything that would cause trouble for him. Business finished, he exited the building in the usual manner, then circled around back to pick up Bruce—only to find Bruce…gone.

Trepidation turned his stomach to knots. _Why couldn't he follow a simple set of directions?_

Using his super speed, he zipped around the circumference of the loft. When that turned up nothing, he used his x-ray vision to scan the outer perimeter of the building, thinking Bruce might have decided to wait for him outside, if something had gone wrong. Still nothing, and it was with a growing sense of frustration that Clark turned his x-ray vision on the main floor, to the exact place that he had forbidden Bruce to go. Finally, he located him, pinned behind a stack of crates close by Edge's office, hiding from a couple of goons who were running their mouths while they took a smoke break. A random placement of steps in the wrong direction and Bruce would have nowhere to hide; a stray sound and he'd be discovered by two guys who wouldn't hesitate to shoot first.

Heart pounding, Clark sped over to the loading dock, used his heat vision to snap the chains that held the metal retractable gate in the open position. As the gate came crashing down, loudly, and on top of a shipment of crates that had yet to be moved inside. All the guys came running to the front of the building to investigate the accident, including the two blocking Bruce's safe retreat.

He intercepted Bruce as he was exiting through the storage room door and dragged him by the arm through the alley and down the block, and around back of the brewery where they had left the car. When they were finally alone and in no danger, Clark pinned Bruce to the side of the car and shook him hard.

"They would have killed you if they had found you in there!" he yelled. "Don't you understand? This isn't a game! I don't want you to get hurt!" He pushed Bruce away, turned. He paced five angry steps in the opposite direction and ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck—" He expelled breath explosively. "Why the hell won't you leave me alone?"

"Come on, Clark—" Bruce was behind him, hand on his arm.

Clark shook him off, refused to turn around and look at him. "Go home," he said, as he started walking away. _"Go home."_


	11. It Was Called Love

**X. It Was Called Love**

 _Then love knew it was called **love.**  
And when I lifted my eyes to your name,  
suddenly your heart showed me my way._

+

 _Saturday night…at a restaurant…in Metropolis…_

The night was fragrant with the scent of cut flowers that adorned every table and the smell of rain, heavy summer rain, that hit the cement sidewalks past the patio overhang with an aggressive, galloping beat.

"Okay, Bruce, is he lying, or what?"

"Exaggerating. Lying is a bit harsh—especially when Harvey's fabrications are only a result of his delusional state."

Everyone around the table started laughing, Bruce included. Harvey elbowed him in the side, causing him to spill his drink and sending their friends into another round of hysterics. As Bruce mopped up the mess, he supposed he was glad he had let Harvey convince him to come out to dinner with their old classmates rather than sit in the penthouse on a Saturday night, studying or brooding, distracted by expectation, staving off disappointment.

Trying to stop himself from chasing after Clark Kent like a puppy.

At some point Clark had to want—

 _What?_ His time, his attention, his help? Clark seemed to be doing fine without any of those things, and over the last three days— _three anxious days_ —Bruce had come to the realization that, maybe, his obsession with _rescuing_ Clark was nothing more than a poor excuse to keep intruding in the young man's life for reasons that had little to do with anything altruistic.

He smiled at Jessica, acting as if he'd heard whatever it was she had just said, while a pulse beat hard at his temples. A flash of heat, a state like a sudden fever had him gulping from his water glass, trying to banish the image, burned into memory, of Clark walking away. Trying to ignore the fact that if he stuck to his resolve and made no effort to track him down, he'd likely never see Clark again.

Another laugh to cover his distraction, some light ribbing of Harvey who was always the life of any gathering and who would gladly snag the spotlight with the slightest encouragement. It allowed Bruce to fade into the background as Harvey launched into an animated re-telling of one of his famous college exploits. Bruce plastered an amused smile on his face in response, letting his eyes wander aimlessly over the people, the restaurant. The waiter deposited food on the table, and they all started eating. The raucous laughter by others covered the fact that he was no longer really engaged in the conversation at all; that his attention had strayed to the street past the restaurant's outer canopy, and the corner streetlight, and the rain that fell in sheets.

The person he saw standing there.

Bruce dropped his fork, the silver making a rude noise against the porcelain of his plate. Harvey glanced over at him enquiringly, with a raised eyebrow and a mouth full of steak, but Bruce merely wiped his mouth carefully with his napkin, with a hand that shook ever so slightly, and reached for his wallet. He pulled out three twenty-dollar bills and placed them on the table.

He made excuses—a paltry explanation that sounded lame to his own ears about remembering an assignment and a phone call he had to make. Harvey grabbed his sleeve, trying to pull him back to his seat, looking from Bruce to the street outside with confusion and a dawning outrage that had Bruce shrugging him off quickly. Harvey made to follow as he turned towards the door, but he stopped him with a heartfelt plea of, "Don't, Harvey. Please. I'll call you tomorrow," and Harvey fell back into his seat, defeated.

Then he was out the door and in the rain, jogging across the street to Clark—who was standing in the shadows under an overhang, waiting.

Bruce stopped when they were within arms distance. Drenched and breathless, with the echo of his life still ringing in his ears— _Bruce, wait!_ —and everything he had thought ruined, ended, standing right in front of him. He found he didn't know the right thing to say, or whether he should say anything at all.

"I did what you asked me to do," he said in a low voice. "I left you alone."

"What if I can't leave you alone?"

The first touch ignited a wilderness in his blood, the way Clark reached out with a hand and cupped the wet nap of his neck, buried fingers in the hair there and pulled him in like the tide. The second touch, thumb to cheek, burned him like a brand, made him catch his breath and his heart stutter and skip. Looking up, bridging the inches that separated them in height, he heard the whisper in his head that Clark was only seventeen— _only seventeen_ —and allowing _this_ went against every decision he had made since he'd encountered Clark again, but that number seemed so artificial now, so…insignificant, unimportant when weighed against what was _wanted,_ needed. The two of them were closer— _so much closer_ —than the two years that separated them in age. It was only _this_ —the pale light of a summer moon, the indigo of sky-touched eyes at night that devoured his face hungrily, the rain that fell like a veil between them and the rest of the world—that mattered at all. Only the soft press of lips, the touch of tongues—this time slow, hesitant—the feelings deep and wild that blasted through his boundaries, made him forget every concern, every reason he'd ever had for denying himself _this,_ as Clark held him, tasted him, kissed his face all over.

The rain fell, cold, soaking their clothes, their hair, their skin, pounding against the press of their bodies, one to the other. It was the sound of a horn honking that recalled Bruce from their private world, made him remember they were, still, out in public, not far from friends who he didn't want involved in his relationship with Clark. He pulled back, wiped some of the rain from his face and looked around to get his bearings. Smirking, Clark let him go.

Bruce hit him in the chest, sending Clark stumbling back. "Stop looking so satisfied with yourself. You just show up out of the blue—how did you find me?"

"I can hear this," Clark said as he reached out, rested a hand on his chest, against his heart. "It's like music to me, angel. There's nowhere you could go where I couldn't find you."

"Now you're into bad poetry," Bruce groaned. He noticed Harvey standing in the entrance to the restaurant, looking in their direction with Bruce's umbrella in his hands. He grabbed Clark by the arm and started them walking towards the corner. "A few days ago you didn't want anything to do with me."

Clark stuck a hand in Bruce's left pocket, pulled him closer so they were walking side-by-side. "I changed my mind. You're mine. The safest place for you to be is with me."

Bruce scrunched up his face skeptically. _"Yours?_ Since when?"

"Since the first time I saw you, all geeked-up and singing out of key."

Bruce pushed Clark away. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not _yours,_ or anybody's." But the thought made his insides clench. "And I never sing out of key."

"Right. I was there."

"Then, obviously, there's something wrong with your hearing."

Clark chuckled. "Trust me, angel. There's nothing wrong with my hearing."

"I don't sing out of key," Bruce groused. They stopped walking by a red Ferrari parked askew on the corner. Clark removed his hand from Bruce's pocket and jogged around to the driver's side.

"This is your car?" Bruce asked incredulously. "Clark, where did you get this car?"

"I borrowed it. Get in."

"Clark—"

"Stop worrying about everything, angel. Get. In."

Bruce shook his head, took a deep breath, let it go. He opened the car door and settled in the passenger's seat.

"Where are we going?" he asked, as Clark started the engine and the car roared away from the curb.

"To my apartment so we can change."

Bruce nodded. He sat back in his seat, eyes closed, feeling like he'd just made an indelible change. Feeling like he'd just been rescued.

+

Clark watched Bruce exit the bathroom with a thoughtful intensity. Bruce had on a pair of his jeans, and his favorite t-shirt, and had a towel over his head, drying his hair. Clark wondered, not for the first time, what he wanted from Bruce, now that he had captured him, brought him home. How the angel fit into his plans… _if he fit into his plans at all._ What made this one person different from the brunette who had bored him to death yesterday, the short-haired blond who had bored him to death the day before that? What distinguished Bruce from the guy with the blue eyes that followed him around the club like a puppy, willing to do anything, _anything,_ that Clark wanted him to do? Why did the beat of this one person's heart sound so loudly in his ears; why did each heartbeat intended for him lift him up, beyond all the plans and concerns that comprised his life now—

Why?

 _Why?_

"Why are you staring at me?"

"I'm not staring. Your hair is standing up."

"That happens. Do you have a brush?"

"On the dresser in the bedroom," Clark said, heading towards the phone. "Did you eat?" he called out. "You want Chinese?"

"Sure."

"Then come over here and pick from the menu."

Bruce re-entered the living room, hair properly tamed, and it was almost a shame, Clark thought. He hadn't really minded the way his hair stood on end, all wild and messy.

Bruce flipped through his stash of menus. "Is this how you eat everyday?"

Clark shrugged. "When I'm here. Most of the time, I'm out at night and I eat wherever's convenient."

"Can you cook?"

"A little. I can make spaghetti, and omelets. My ma says—" Clark stopped. "I can make a few things," he continued, brushing by Bruce and sitting on the edge of the sofa, in front of the TV. "Hey, you want to watch a movie?"

"Sure. You want me to call this in?"

Clark nodded, as he started flipping through the pile of DVDs that were stacked on the floor by the coffee table. He listened absently as Bruce placed the order, shifting to give him room on the sofa when he came over to sit down. Bruce grabbed a few of the DVDs from the stack.

"These are yours?" Bruce asked, studying one of the chick flicks in the stack.

Clark glanced at the movie he was holding. "Hardly. They came with the apartment."

"Really? How…?"

Sighing, Clark decided it wouldn't hurt to explain. "When I first got to Metropolis, I needed a place to stay—obviously. I had certain…offers at first, people who wanted me to live with them, or wanted to put me up where they'd have access to me. Before I understood how it all works, I stayed with this guy—" Clark shook his head. "But that didn't work out. I knew I needed my own space, so I went to the man at the top. I had something he wanted, and in exchange, he hooked me up with the owner of this complex. They keep this apartment for associates in town on business. It was completely furnished and exactly what I needed. Simple." Clark leaned back on the sofa, grinning. "The pornos are in the cabinet—"

"I'm _not_ sitting here watching porn with you—"

"Suit yourself, angel, though if you ask me—"

"I didn't."

"You know, you need to work on your temper." Clark laughed. "Pick a movie, angel. Whatever you want is fine with me."

Clark kept his eyes on Bruce as he browsed through the stack, found it was a pleasant pastime, every movement a feast for his sight. It was ten o'clock on a Saturday night, and ordinarily he'd be changing his clothes, getting ready to head out to the club, maybe to do a job. He would never have thought he'd want to spend the evening watching a movie with some guy from Gotham, would likely have thought such an evening boring and not worth his time. But right now, he couldn't think of any place he'd rather be than with this particular person. The strangest thing of all—he was glad they weren't at the club, that he didn't have to vie with the music or a crowd of people for Bruce's attention. It was just the two of them, and it was exactly how Clark thought it should be.

"This?" Bruce held the movie up, raised an eyebrow.

"Sure. Let me see—"

As Bruce went to pass him the movie, Clark captured his hand, pulled him forward so he collapsed on his chest.

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked, but he didn't pull away. _He didn't pull away._

"Guess."

 _There._ That flickering in blue eyes, like a tightly held fear, the beginning of panic. _What are you afraid of, angel? Not me. I know you know I would never hurt you._

"Clark…"

 _"Let me—"_

He tugged Bruce down until he could reach his lips. At first Bruce was stiff, reluctant. Then, like a flower blossoming, like a blaze coaxed to life from dying embers, he responded, and it was all Clark could do to remember he had the ability to hurt, if he didn't hold something back. It had been so long since he cared about hurting anyone—but he did. _He did care._ What he held in his arms was precious, rare. He recognized it, and it belonged to him.

Clark retreated, looked in those eyes again, eyes that were now burning embers. It became clear to him, all of a sudden. "Yourself," he whispered, pulling Bruce in so he could kiss his eyelids, the curve of a cheek, the small cleft in his chin. "You're afraid of yourself." The smooth skin of the neck, the shell of one perfect ear. "But we're together, now." Lips, the softest, most perfect lips. _"Together._ Don't be afraid…"

 _His to care for. His to protect._

The intercom buzzed. They reluctantly untangled themselves, sat up and breathed deeply. "The food," Clark said, getting up and retrieving his wallet. He headed for the door.

He paid for the delivery and deposited the bag on the table. The passion between them was banked for a time, by tacit agreement, but was still simmering under the surface as they gathered plates and distributed food. It was stoked by heated glances, a stray touch now and then. But as they talked and laughed, as Bruce attempted to teach Clark how to use his chopsticks, and as Clark made fun of Bruce's rich boy sensibilities, an accord was reached. A mutual, unspoken decision that nothing needed to be rushed. The first step on a long road was simply to get to know one another. _They barely knew one another at all._ There would be time enough for everything.

Food, movie, talking…laugher, echoing—they started the evening on opposite ends of the sofa and ended it with Bruce asleep on Clark's chest. How anyone could sleep through the end of _this_ movie, Clark surely didn't know. What he _did_ know, _now_ —what he had never felt or understood before this night—was that nothing, _nothing,_ felt as good as having the only person in the world he cared about asleep in his arms.


	12. A Lunatic City

**XI. A Lunatic City**

 _We wanted to build a strong nest  
with our own hands, without hurt or harm or speech,  
but love was not like that: love was a lunatic city  
with crowds of people blanching on their porches._

+

 _A Friday night…two weeks later…at Club Atlantis…_

The music was hardcore techno, loud, fast and distorted, with the club's blue and red strobe lights timed to the synthetic beat. Bruce felt the flecks of sweat hit his face as Clark's head swung from left to right, the strong arm around his waist that kept them pressed together from chest to thigh tightening to the escalating rhythms. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the manic feel of a whole world comprised of only two people, intensely alive and burning, wrapped in flickering color, insulated by deafening sound.

This had become their routine. Bruce had a life he lived by day, and an alternate existence at night. He went to class, came home, finished any assigned work, studied when necessary, dodged friends and acquaintances—and met Clark at the club by ten, spent hours with him dancing and drinking and fooling around in dark corners made startling, incandescent with passionate heat, until the early hours of the morning. Then he raced home to catch a few hours sleep before reporting to the academy. Two weeks had seen the routine of a mastered life change abruptly, as with a sudden fall from a high wire.

His life had been a high wire act. Now, he was just high.

He felt Clark shift, the arm release to be replaced by fingers under the waistline of his jeans, at the small of his back, brushing like tendrils of fire along his skin. Tugging at the lip of fabric. Bruce opened his eyes, followed Clark from the dance floor to the chairs by the bar.

Bruce found a seat, said nothing when Clark winked and disappeared down the corridor that led to the bathrooms, turning heads as he moved through the music. He was stark as lightning, cloaked in a stormy scent of danger that surrounded him like the smoke in the air. _Strangers._ People who could only watch and want; who were strange and exterior to their private world. He ordered two beers from the bartender—the same one who had refused to sell him alcohol a few weeks ago but who now knew him for a regular, and waited, coiled and expectant.

It was the stampede of people, women stumbling in their high heels, that told Bruce there was trouble. And the groans from the bartender behind him, _Kal's at it again,_ that told him the trouble involved Clark.

He pushed his way through the crowd, found Clark with a forearm to the throat of a guy Bruce knew to be one of Morgan Edge's right hand men. As he approached, he saw another man he recognized sneaking towards Clark from the side. Bruce stepped in and put the guy on the floor—quick and hard—before the gangster had an opportunity to cause any trouble. He placed a placating hand on Clark's back, in between his shoulder blades, and stepped in close so Clark's eyes shifted to him rather than the man he was holding so efficiently against the wall. The man was turning red. Bruce was sure he was having trouble breathing.

"What happened?" he asked, thumb pressing down and making small circles, soothing sharp edges, reminding Clark that he wanted his attention.

"Nothing." Clark blew air through flared nostrils. "He thought he could threaten me. A guy with such a big _mouth_ should be able to back it up, don't you think, angel?"

"I think you've made your point. Forget about him, Clark. Let's get out of here."

He could see Clark weighing his offer, the prospect of additional mayhem—another opportunity to show he could take care of himself—vying with a strange new desire to keep him happy. Bruce trailed his fingertips up, along the spine, the neck, and over along the strong line of Clark's jaw. Almost imperceptibly, Clark tilted his face into his hand. Bruce smiled then, small, wry, shook his head and retreated to the bar, knowing Clark would follow.

Bruce dropped some money on the counter to pay their tab, ignored the low voices that marveled at the fact that he was able to control Clark at all, that were grateful the night wouldn't end with a fight clearing the club. _What did they know about anything?_

 _What did they know about **this?** _

He waited for Clark to reach his side. The hand, proprietary, at the small of his back. Together, they abandoned the club in favor of another of their regular pastimes: racing along the streets of Metropolis, wind against their faces, needing nothing but each other—living on the very edge, living in their own private world.

+

"I can't. Not tonight," Clark said around a mouthful of hamburger when Bruce tried to discuss their _plans_ for the evening. Having actual plans was a new step in their relationship, a natural one, he supposed, after two weeks meeting practically every night at the club, but he had a job to do, and he couldn't blow off Morgan Edge—not three times in one week, not even for Bruce. "I have to check in."

Black brows knitted together in concern and consternation. Clark knew that look. He knew exactly what Bruce was going to say.

"Clark—"

Clark sipped from his drink, slurping loudly, adopting his most stubborn expression. "I can't just disappear, angel. It doesn't work that way. Last night at the club—those guys came after me because I haven't been doing what I said I'd do."

"You can't be serious."

Bruce looked away, over Clark's shoulder and out to the street beyond. It bothered Clark—to know that Bruce was disappointed, but there was nothing he could do about it this time. The angel couldn't always have his way.

"You're just a kid, Clark." Blue eyes found his, pleading silently. "You don't owe them anything. You don't owe them your life."

"A kid?" Clark's hand found a thigh under the table, thumb making small circles against the loose denim. Bruce glared at him, creamy complexion flushing red.

"You know what I mean."

A bit of pressure, a hardening response.

"I can do things that no one else can do," Clark said. "You don't have to be worried about me." Briefly, he considered explaining exactly _why_ Bruce needn't worry, but some niggling insecurity made him decide against it. This wasn't the right time. A fast food restaurant wasn't the right place. He knew Bruce had doubts about their relationship, saw the way he'd looked at him sometimes, as if he wasn't quite sure of the _reason_ they were together, as if he stood poised on the edge of calling the whole thing off. Though it had been a long time since Clark had needed to worry about people knowing the extent of his power, he didn't want Bruce to know until he was sure of his reaction, sure he'd understand. He couldn't risk—

Clark shook his head, his one free hand reaching for a napkin to wipe his mouth. "They won't let me just walk away, angel. Besides, why should I?"

Clearly frustrated, Bruce pushed his chair back so he was out of Clark's reach. "Because it's dangerous, Clark. Because it's _wrong."_

"Define wrong," he said, shrugging.

"If I have to define right and wrong for you, we have a much bigger problem than your involvement with Intergang. I know you can do better than this. If you let me, I can help you—"

"Help me? Are you going to buy my food, my clothes, pay my rent? Are you going to get me a job in a mailroom somewhere, at one of your companies? This is my life, angel. My _choice._ I walked away from owing anyone _anything._ I don't need your help."

People were looking at them, the two handsome guys in jeans and t-shirts, glaring daggers at each other. Clark cared not at all for any of them. In a minute, if they didn't stop _looking,_ he was going to fry them, _and then what would Bruce do?_

"That's your problem," Bruce said.

Clark scowled, disgusted. "Now I have a problem."

"You think you don't need anyone. You're too stupid to accept help."

"Stop trying to change me," Clark demanded, hotly. "If you don't like who I am, what I do, you need to go back to your _college_ friends, to _Harvey."_

"Perhaps I should. I don't know what I'm doing here…"

Clark was on his feet, the edges of his vision stained a bright, pulsating red. His chair overturned on the floor behind him. "With me," he said, voice low. "You don't know what you're doing here _with me."_ Clark pulled out his wallet, dropped some money on the table. "Neither do I, angel."

There was silence between them. Bruce stared up at him, still as a statue, eyes hooded, impossible to decipher. A dark whisper in the back of Clark's head said _this could all end now._ And _why should he care?_ When the person he had been trying so hard to please thought so little of him. There were others, waiting for Bruce in the wings— _Harvey,_ and others like him—and, eventually, Bruce would go back to them. All that would be left was this hollow feeling, just like _this,_ of something he had allowed himself to want so desperately being snatched away, placed just out of reach.

The past usurped the present. He didn't need Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne didn't need him. Clark turned and left the restaurant without looking back.

+

When Clark walked through the door to the dojo later that evening, calmly, wearing the red and white Kawasaki racing jacket that Bruce loved over a simple white tee, Bruce wasn't exactly surprised, but he was immensely relieved. He would have been embarrassed if anyone knew the depth of his relief, the immediate release of tension at this proof that Clark felt the same pull—the pull that forced a concession, forced them to come together whenever they were apart. How deep was the relief in knowing that Clark cared. That Bruce wasn't the only one living this mad season.

Bruce feigned nonchalance. After all, he was right in the middle of a kata.

"How did you find me?"

"Finding you is easy, angel." Clark leaned against the door frame, watching. "Are you still mad?"

 _"You_ left _me,"_ he reminded Clark, and if his voice was more accusatory than was warranted, it was only because he never wanted to be in this thing _alone._ He brought his kata to a close, turned, and gave Clark all of his attention.

"You work out here?"

Bruce smiled. It was an obvious question, but good enough to break the ice. "All the time." He walked over to the bench by the sparring equipment to retrieve his towel, wiped his face and hands and let it drop. "Not so much lately, though." He glanced over his shoulder at Clark, who was still studying him from the doorway as if he were a puzzle that needed to be solved. "I've been distracted." He paced back to the center of the mats, started stretching and warming down. "Thought I'd put in a few hours tonight, since I had nothing better to do."

Clark straightened, made to join him in the middle of the room.

"Your shoes."

He watched Clark toe off his shoes and remove his jacket and leave it on the coat rack by the door. He strode across the large floor mat that dominated the main area of the dojo, looking around, until they were within arms reach.

"You're here alone?"

Bruce nodded. "I teach classes for the sensei whenever he has a conflict. Sometimes, I like to work out late. If I'm the last one here, I lock up. Sensei doesn't mind if I stay."

"He trusts you." Clark nodded. "You're the type of guy people trust."

Bruce shrugged, grinned self-deprecatingly. "I _am_ rich. I guess they figure I'd have no reason to steal."

"It's more than that," Clark disagreed, but then he let the subject drop. Instead, he asked, "So this is where you practice those kung-fu moves?"

"Yeah—"

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me how to do what you do."

Bruce studied Clark's face, tried to determine if he was serious. It was always so hard to read Clark. "What do you want to know?"

"Show me how you did that leg thing—you know, after the race when you laid those two guys out—" Clark pantomimed an exaggerated, movie-style move.

"Oh yeah." Bruce grinned, remembering every intense minute of that situation, until the moment he lost consciousness. He moved to stand beside Clark. "That's not too hard. Stand like this—"

It was…more fun than anything had a right to be, sparring with Clark, teaching him some technique to go with his obvious brute strength. Clark was a very quick study, and before too long they were sparring in earnest. Nothing advanced, of course, but simple grabs and throws, punches and kicks, movement and balance. Clark was heavier than him, stronger, differently muscled. He had the body maturity of a much older guy, so their tussling had the intensity of a serious match, a fast, wild game. Even though Bruce was infinitely more experienced in technique, it became a challenge to see how close he could get to Clark, how little he had to twist away to remain just out of reach, just beyond Clark's balance point. It became the embodiment of one of the first lessons he'd mastered, when he'd taken up martial arts in earnest: to go beyond strength and look instead for the instant of instability, the moment he could make his opponent overreach himself.

The look on Clark's face as he pinned him to the mat was nothing short of exhilarating. Bruce leaned in, kissed Clark the way he'd been wanting to kiss him since he'd appeared at the front door. Kissed him like they had never argued. Kissed him like he needed to apologize for arguing, like all he wanted was to return to their private world against a tide of rational sense.

"I'm glad you're here," he admitted, when they stopped for breath.

"Where else would I be?" Clark grinned, wide and insouciant, glittering, bright. Bruce noticed he wasn't even winded, after more than an hour of strenuous exercise, and marveled at Clark's seemingly endless energy.

"Can't let you get away."

Bruce sat back, but remained seated on Clark's thighs. "We should do this again," he said. "I like to practice everyday, and the way you start trouble, it wouldn't hurt for you to learn a few things."

Bruce leveraged himself up, holding out a hand for Clark.

"And you're going to teach me?"

"I could, if you were interested. Might cut into your party time, though."

Clark jogged over to the bench and the towel laying there, used it to wipe his face and hands. "I think I'll survive," he called out, returning to the edge of the mat where Bruce was rifling through his gym bag, on the floor on one knee. "Besides, I have to keep a low profile."

Clark dropped the towel on his head. "I didn't check in," he said.

There was everything in that admission. Bruce straightened up slowly to better absorb the impact. All he wanted was to get Clark to—

"It's just for tonight," Clark warned. "Because it seemed so important to you. Doesn't mean anything's changed."

Bruce reached out, pulled Clark to him by the belt. Rewarded him with another kiss, another flight through their interior world on wings that promised release, fulfillment. _Soon._ It was so clear, like a tunnel of light through a bank of fog—everything had changed. There was more between them than an impossible dream of intercession, the role of savior wrapped in some ridiculous party paper and tied with a pink bow. There was progress and accommodation, the desire to stay and work things out—to stay, _to not go away._ Everything had changed. Clark simply refused to admit it.

Clark bit his lower lip, the habit, endearing. "So we're going to do this again?"

"If you want," Bruce agreed, pulling away and grabbing his bag. His eyes swept the gym, looking for anything out of place. Satisfied, he walked over to the light switches, turned everything off. He motioned for Clark to follow as he made his way towards the front of the studio.

"You _might_ be able to teach me something," Clark mused as he put on his shoes. "You're not half bad."

 _"Not bad?"_

"Okay, you're pretty damn good," Clark admitted, grinning, following Bruce through the door and waiting as he set the alarm and locked up. "How long have you been into this stuff?"

"I've been training since I was six."

"Thirteen years—that's a long time."

Bruce rested a serious gaze on the sharp planes of Clark's face, admitted something he would never have admitted—not out loud, not to anyone else. In a way, it was a proffer of trust, a leap of intimacy, a validation that this thing between them had survived, would continue to thrive and grow, despite it all. ""It's hard—sometimes. Sometimes I think this is the only thing that's kept me sane, you know?"

That earned him a quick kiss to the temple, a reeling in that had him settled at Clark's side, a finger hooked lightly through the belt holding his gi closed.

"So, what did you want to do tonight?"

"Movies. There's a Dawn of the Dead marathon playing at the Loews. I thought you'd get a kick out of it."

Clark allowed a smile that outshone the sliver of moon overhead to spread across his face. "Angel, you know me well."

+

 _The next evening…at Clark's apartment…in downtown Metropolis…_

Clark picked up the game controller and continued to play his video game as Bruce moved around in the kitchen. His memory was perfect, eidetic. He hardly needed to resort to his eyesight to put an image to each sound, to remember the way Bruce ducked his head when concentrating on something, the inimitable grace in his every movement. The way straight black hair, arranged neatly, would eventually escape any planned structuring. But he kept an eye on his visitor nonetheless, quick glances when the game required less than his full attention, taking a strange amount of pleasure in the sight of Bruce being so oblivious, so concentrated on what he wanted, so comfortable in Clark's space. Bruce had brought groceries with him this time. _Groceries._ He was busy putting things away in the cabinets and refrigerator.

"Thanks for the food," Clark called out. "You didn't have to, you know. The take-out is great around here."

"Makes me feel better to know you have something in the apartment, just in case." Bruce appeared in the entranceway to the kitchen, holding a can of soda. "You want?"

Clark nodded.

A minute later, Bruce was sitting on the floor, his own controller in hand. They played Clark's favorite first-person shooter for hours, killing each other, demolishing teams, laughing, tussling and elbowing each other to distraction, making boasts that neither of them could really guarantee because they were too evenly matched—enjoying each other's company completely and without reservation. Clark knew Bruce was used to headier fare, more intellectual pursuits, but not once did he complain about their activity. In fact, Bruce seemed more lost in enjoyment than anything else, relieved of the tension and stress that had him too often wearing a frown, too serious-minded for someone who had unlimited resources and the world at his feet.

Clark glanced at the clock on the wall above the bar counter. It was getting late.

"If you want to go out, we'd better leave," he said, pausing the game and placing his controller on the coffee table.

Bruce did the same, then got to his feet and stretched. "I don't know. You want to go somewhere?"

Clark shrugged, admiring the lean flex of muscles as Bruce worked the kinks out of his limbs, the teasing display of skin as his shirt hiked up when he reached for the ceiling. "We could just stay here," he offered.

Clark watched the thoughts play across Bruce's face with interest, as he gathered their soda cans and associated junk from hours of gameplay and disposed of things in the kitchen. He knew Bruce was concerned about the physical, how young he thought Clark was—too young to do certain things. How much control he'd be able to exert over himself, given unlimited access and opportunity.

But Clark didn't share his concern—at least, not about his age. He had other things to worry about that touched on his powers and heritage, things he didn't know the answers to. Things that were complicated, unique.

"We could do that," Bruce agreed, eyes shying away, voice careful.

 _Who were they kidding?_ Not each other. Clark knew they stood on the exact same precipice, prepared themselves to step over the exact same edge.

Before too long, they were horizontal, stretched out on the sofa together, Bruce on top of a passionate press, a confusion of entwined limbs. Every sensation—the smoothness of skin, the pressure of hands, the groaning breath right by his ear and the sweet taste of sweat—built a tension in Clark's stomach, a desperate need for release, as he moved a hand between their bodies, gripped the hardness there through denim. Then came the frantic positioning for better access, _to allow better access._ Zippers lowered, hands moved inside jeans, mutual stimulation in time to kisses wet and deep. Bliss rose in him to a fevered pitch. Liquid fire ran through his veins.

An explosion, white-hot and paralyzing, seized them both at the same time, stopped all semblance of technique as their mouths remained connected but slack, their bodies pressed together rigidly. Moments, a length of time that felt like forever, passed undisturbed, until Bruce pulled back a little, removed a sticky hand from the front of Clark's jeans, and ducked his head to the junction of Clark's neck and shoulder, resting there.

This feeling—Clark marveled in it, breathed it in, committed it in every way to dearest memory. He had never felt like this with anyone, so on the verge of losing every bit of control he had ever learned—not with Lana, not with…

No one made him feel like this. Except Bruce. _Except his angel._

So when it started again, when he felt the tickle of a tongue lave his neck, lips soft and gentle against the line of his chin, the shift as hands roamed and bodies pressed together in a clothing-impaired rhythm, Clark allowed his hands to wander under the hem of Bruce's shirt, to trail teasing fingers over the skin at the base of his spine. He dragged blunt fingertips up and over the wide expanse, the flexing muscles, making his desire known for the shirt impeding his access to be taken off. Bruce obliged, in one quick, graceful movement, sitting back on his haunches and allowing Clark to feast his eyes on his beautiful body, the most magnificent sight.

When Bruce leaned in, trailing fingers over the undone fastenings of his jeans, skipping lightly over the hardness there and, instead, finding a way to the bottom edge of his t-shirt, and under it, Clark reached out and stopped his hand.

"Wait. There's something—"

 _How in the world to explain_ —a brand that covered his entire chest? That marked him and bound him to a people and a destiny he wanted nothing to do with? The mark of the House of El, burned into his skin by his father, Jor-El, to force him to comply with the demands of his destiny. To make him suffer excruciating pain if he refused.

How to explain?

There really were no words in the face of Bruce's confusion, the look that said he was already berating himself for his lack of control, for asking Clark for something he was obviously unwilling to give. Instead, Clark levered himself into a sitting position and pulled his t-shirt over his head.

Bruce inhaled sharply. "Oh my God— _Clark!_ What is this?" A hand reached out, touched the edges of the brand carefully. "How did you do this? Who did this to you?"

Clark sat back further on the couch, away from Bruce's questing hands. "My father is a bastard," he said, unrolling his t-shirt and shrugging it over his head.

"Your father—? _Clark—your father did that?"_

Clark ignored the question. He got up and headed to the bathroom to clean up.

When he returned to the living room, Bruce was outwardly composed, but his eyes were blue pits of fire, burning.

Clark took a seat on the sofa, grabbed the remote. He glanced at Bruce. "I don't want to talk about this," he said. "There's no way for me to explain it to you. Not now."

"But, _Clark—"_

Clark cut him off. "I know you think it's about the craziest thing you've ever seen. You don't have to make excuses if you don't want—"

Bruce reached out, grabbed him by the shoulders. "Clark, stop. _Stop._ I don't care about that. How it looks doesn't matter to me. I think you're the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen—nothing's changed. I just—I want you to tell me what's going on. I want to know what's happened to you, _why anyone would do this to you—"_

"And if I don't want to talk about it?" Clark asked in a hollow voice. "If I just want you to leave it alone, act like this doesn't exist? Can you do that?"

Bruce exhaled air from his lungs explosively. _"I don't want to do that!"_ he snarled, and shook him a little, like he was trying to shake some sense into him. "Clark—I can protect you from anyone who would hurt you like this. Don't you understand?"

Clark shrugged him off. "You're the one who doesn't understand. You can't protect me, angel. Not from this, not from anything. Stop trying."

Bruce sat back on the sofa, stared straight ahead as Clark turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels.

"Clark—"

Clark turned in Bruce's direction, was captured and pulled into a tight embrace where safety, compassion, understanding, intimations of limitless possibilities surrounded him, like the arms of the familiar, the unknown yet recognized. They fell into each other, settled on the sofa to watch a movie, fell asleep just like that. Together.

+

A sense of wrongness startled Bruce awake, pulled him from a dream where everything was as blue as Clark's eyes, and cloudless, and he knew exactly what to do, what to say to make sure the sky went on forever. He heard the cocking of a gun— _35 millimeter_ —pushed at Clark and saw his eyes fly open as they rolled haphazardly from the sofa to the floor.

The apartment was dark, and shadows moved menacingly. Bruce intercepted the man nearest to him, hoping Clark had enough sense, if not to run, then to at least avoid getting shot. His own opponent was momentarily startled by his fighting skills, but his advantage disappeared quickly when he stumbled over one of the game controllers. A fist connected with his face, knocking him down and out.

When he came to, he was on the sofa, with his head in Clark's lap.

"Wha—"

"Take it easy, angel."

Bruce struggled to sit up. "What happened?" He looked around, expecting to see—he wasn't sure. Certainly more than the usual. "Where—" He turned to Clark. _"What happened?"_

Clark looked away and to the left, and Bruce knew it for a classic sign of impending evasion and would have none of it. "Who were those men, Clark? What did they _want?"_

"Four of Edge's bodyguards," Clark said, getting up from the sofa and heading to the kitchen. He returned with a washcloth filled with ice. Passed it to Bruce who took it from him gratefully and pressed it to the side of his face.

"What did they want?"

"Me. Or, rather, my agreement to do the things I said I would do for Edge. I've been dodging them for more than two weeks." He paused, sat back down on the sofa, in the corner. "I told you it wouldn't be simple."

Bruce inspected Clark again, relieved to see that he was perfectly fine, that nothing looked injured or damaged, an amazing state of affairs after an altercation with people like that. "How did you—?"

"They were just trying to scare me." Clark shrugged. "They were reasonable, once I agreed to cooperate." Again, a pause. "I'm just sorry you got hurt."

"Forget about me—what did you agree to do? Clark—this is too dangerous. You have to let me help you get out of this mess."

"I have it under control," Clark said. "But you—"

Bruce raised a hand, halting Clark's speech. "Don't say I have to stay away until you fix this. That's crazy. This is too much for one person to deal with, and I have resources you don't have." Bruce got to his feet, started pacing. "In fact, I want you out of here. This is their place. There's no security here, and they can come back at any time. You're not safe." Bruce put the washcloth on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room, took a deep breath, and made a decision. "You're going to stay with me."

If he expected Clark to object, he was surprised. Clark was silent, studying him sharply, like a panther, from where he was sitting on the sofa.

"Any objections?"

"No place is safe," Clark said. "Not to do what you want me to do. Not to jerk around Morgan Edge."

"I'm not going to argue about this, Clark—"

Clark stood up, stalked across the room so they were standing face to face. "They threatened me by threatening you," he said in a low voice, and Bruce's gut clenched. "If I'm with you, I can protect you. Your apartment is as good a place as any."

Bruce let go of the breath he was holding. The breath he had marshaled for his expected fight with Clark was released in a rush along with the tension in his bones. He cared not at all what sort of wild notion Clark had about who was protecting whom. All he wanted was Clark on his own turf, in surroundings that he understood and could control. All he needed was time to put the right plan in place.

"Grab some things," he said. "I want us out of here as soon as possible."

+

 _Sunday afternoon…at the Wayne penthouse…in Metropolis…_

Harvey knocked on the door to Bruce's top floor apartment, tapping his foot impatiently while he waited for his friend to answer. Bruce had been dodging him for two weeks, ever since he had abandoned Harvey and all their friends in the Shark Bar that Saturday night. Harvey was determined to sit him down and talk some sense into him. He knocked again, harder this time. Bruce was home, he knew. He had checked with the front desk before coming up.

Finally, the door was yanked open.

"You."

 _"You!"_ Harvey knew his mouth was hanging open. With a concentrated effort, he closed it, glared at the embodiment of all of his current problems with his protégé accusingly. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I live here," Clark responded with a dismissive snort. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Then Bruce was there, pulling the kid back into the apartment, whispering something in his ear that had the delinquent growling low in his throat but backing away, disappearing into the apartment like a bad odor.

Without the distraction of that kid smirking in his face, Harvey was able to take a good look at his friend. _"What the hell happened to you?"_ he exclaimed, appalled. He reached out, touched the black and blue mark that covered the side of Bruce's face.

"Harvey—"

"Don't _Harvey_ me, Bruce."

Bruce stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance into the apartment. Harvey elbowed him and pushed his way past and inside. He had to see what was going on, and Bruce wasn't going to get rid of him that easily.

He stopped dead at the sight of Clark sitting on the sofa, watching Bruce's TV with his big feet propped up on the coffee table. Bruce came up behind him. Harvey turned and stared at him, aghast.

"What the fuck—"

Bruce grabbed his arm. "Harvey." He walked over to Clark, leaned in and said something else that Harvey couldn't catch. The kid looked in his direction with one of those passive expressions Harvey immediately labeled as the look of a budding career criminal.

The juvenile delinquent got up and disappeared into Bruce's bedroom. As soon as he was out of sight, Harvey turned on Bruce.

"What the fuck? What's he _doing_ here? You're a cop! A cop! He's a runaway! His parents are looking for him! Goddamn it, Bruce, he's not even eighteen!"

"It's not like that, Harvey—"

"Not like what? He said he's staying here—is he staying here?"

That sharp blue gaze shied away. "Yes," Bruce admitted.

Harvey started pacing, with a hand to his temples, rubbing vigorously. _"Have you lost your mind?"_ he yelled. "Is this a phase?" Mumbled, "I think this is a phase. Of course, a normal person would go through this in college." Then louder, "Remember Linda? She had my nose wide open. She used to do this _thing_ —but that's not the point. I got over it."

Harvey stopped his pacing, turned on Bruce and took him by the shoulders, shook him. "Bruce," he yelled. _"Get over it, already!"_

Bruce walked away from him, into the kitchen. Harvey followed.

"Calm down," he said. "He's staying here, but it's only temporary—"

"Did you fuck him?" Harvey interrupted. He watched Bruce flush red, was appalled but moved past the sickening mental picture to a way to mitigate this disaster. "Good, do that. Get it out of your system. Then get him out of here. No one has to know…"

Bruce slammed his hand down on the counter. "That's enough, Harvey. Whatever I'm doing with Clark is none of your business. I know you're concerned for me—and I thank you—but I have this under control. I need you to be a _friend_ and trust me."

Harvey stared at Bruce incredulously. _Be a friend?_ A friend would call the runaway hotline and have that kid picked up and hauled off to whatever rock he crawled out from under. A friend would call Alfred and tell him that Bruce was fucking up—big time, and perhaps he needed to come to town for an extended stay. A friend would—

But Bruce was watching him, with those eyes that said more clearly than words that he would not be swayed from this lunacy. It was their friendship at stake—and a trust that, if violated, Harvey would never be able to repair. Not with Bruce.

"Trust me, Harvey. Don't interfere. Don't do—anything." Bruce broke eye contact, ducked his head. "Don't make me choose."


	13. A World Made of Air

**XII. A World Made of Air**

 _Before I loved you, Love, nothing was my own:  
I wavered through streets, among objects:  
nothing mattered or had a name:  
the world was made of air, which waited._

+

 _Later…that same night…at the Wayne penthouse…_

It was the soft sound of whimpering, muffled by pillows, inaudible to anyone without super hearing that woke him.

Clark had fallen asleep on the plush leather sofa, in front of the flat screen TV, even though Bruce had instructed him to settle in the guest bedroom. That Bruce wanted to maintain some artificial idea of _boundaries,_ where they each slept in separate rooms, had at first angered him—so clearly did the whole notion stem from the interference of that two-faced clown _Harvey_ —but as the night wore on, as Bruce retreated behind his closed bedroom door and Clark studied him through the walls with his x-ray vision, he came to the conclusion it was for the best. He already felt too responsible for Bruce, and having the angel around was causing him no end of trouble, putting a serious kink in his plans with Edge. Sex of any sort would mean more of his secrets would inevitably come out. Strangers who knew bits and pieces of his abilities meant nothing, but Bruce was already too close.

Every sexual advance meant the stubborn angel could learn something that would make him go away…or make him refuse to go away. Either scenario was…complicated. Clark's new life was simple. Complications were to be avoided.

But…it was hard. He _wanted._ So many things he wanted.

Clark sat up. Reached out for the remote and turned off the television. Cocked an ear to the sounds of distress coming from the master bedroom. Sighed softly.

He headed in that direction.

The penthouse was flooded with moonlight, from the skylights and the floor-to-ceiling glass that enabled such an impressive view of the Metropolis skyline. It reminded Clark of his loft in the barn at home in that way, full of the bright light of the night sky pouring in like silver into a bowl. He tentatively reached out a hand and pushed the bedroom door open—and was struck dumb by the sight of pale skin awash in a starlight nimbus. A guardian angel bare to the waist and huddled in a ball in the middle of an oversized bed, face buried in a pillow and the sheets tangled up around him—making muted, heartbroken sounds like his world had come to an end.

Fascinated, Clark moved closer.

The scene was reminiscent of that night at Clark's apartment two weeks ago, when Julia had spiked Bruce's drink, but his distress was less violent this time, more restrained, infinitely sadder. With his face buried in a pillow, it was almost as if he unconsciously wanted to stifle himself, hold it all in. Clark settled on the edge of the bed and reached out a hand.

At the touch of his hand to the soft skin of a shoulder, Bruce jerked, and his head came up.

"Hey," Clark said, as Bruce stared at him, face tear-streaked and confused. "Are you okay?"

It was almost as if Bruce wanted to speak but couldn't. Suspended in the last moments of his nightmare, all he could do was reach out, allow Clark to pull him close. Clark reclined in the bed, settled Bruce on his chest, and spent the next fifteen minutes stroking his back, waiting for the hitch in his breathing to subside and his heart to return to a normal pace. Clark tightened his arms. It never got boring—holding Bruce like this, _being needed by him,_ but Clark had to wonder why Bruce was afflicted with such horrible dreams, dreams that turned him into a shadow of his confident, daytime self. He had to wonder what Bruce did on nights when he wasn't around to soothe tattered edges. Who woke him, who held him close when the nightmares came? One thing Clark understood intuitively from the devastated look in blue eyes waking: No matter how self-sufficient, confident and precocious Bruce seemed, he shouldn't be left _alone._

Bruce seemed to read his mind, a sort of touch telepathy that conveyed concern and curiosity through the gentle play of fingers across skin, because he started talking in a low voice that anyone but Clark would have had to strain to hear.

"Sorry," Bruce said. "Sorry…you must think—"

Clark leaned over, placed a kiss at his temple, pressed fingers into his back and massaged taut muscles, encouraging Bruce to relax.

"It's the target practice," explained the voice, muffled in the fabric of his t-shirt.

Clark hummed a curious note.

"At the academy. We're on weapons training." Again, Bruce fell silent. "I don't like guns."

Clark frowned. "Kinda hard to be a cop if you can't shoot a gun."

He felt Bruce stiffen, the face turn away from his shirt. "Not _can't."_ The voice was indignant. "I'm a perfect shot. The best in my class. _I just don't like guns."_

Clark quirked an eyebrow that, obviously, Bruce couldn't appreciate. "Okay," he said, amused. Far be it for him to suggest that a chronic overachiever would have a hard time with anything. "Why not?"

Again, the silence, but longer this time. If it wasn't so easy to monitor Bruce's heartbeat and breathing, Clark might have thought he'd fallen asleep. When he had about given up on their conversation, Bruce continued.

"You know my parents—they were killed." His voice became a little louder, a little stronger. "They were shot, in front of me, when I was a child. Everyone knows—" A pause. "I remember the noise, the flashes of light. The memories—the training at the academy makes it hard…makes it hard not to remember—"

So he dreamed about the death of his parents. That made sense, Clark supposed. He wasn't sure what he would have done if he'd had to watch his parents murdered in cold blood. The thought made Clark uncomfortable, even though he really had no parents to speak of—except the Kents, and he'd left them behind weeks ago.

"What are you doing in the police academy, anyway?" Clark wanted to know. "It's not as if you have to put yourself through this…"

It was then that Bruce explained that he didn't want to let his past rule him. He had identified the police force as the best way to make a difference in Gotham, and he was determined to succeed. It all sounded like a bunch of rationalizations to Clark, because, obviously, Bruce was miserable.

"You don't seem happy," Clark offered cautiously, shifting so that Bruce was settled at his side instead of on his chest. It made it easier for them to continue their conversation, comfortably side-by-side, Bruce laying on his back and Clark propped up on an elbow. Clark splayed a hand out on Bruce's stomach, fingers spread out wide and covering almost the entire area. He felt the muscles there quiver.

"I guess…I'm not," Bruce admitted, grudgingly, as he settled his own hand over Clark's and entwined their fingers. "It's…harder than I thought it would be." Their fingers started to play, to make small circles against each other, against skin. "Not the work, of course," Bruce quickly added. "The work is a piece of cake. It's just…"

"What?"

"I don't fit in," Bruce admitted in a rush, as if voicing his concerns for the first time out loud. "Everyone thinks I'm just some spoiled rich kid who wants a license to bust heads and carry a gun. They think I'm _playing_ around, that I'm just trying to make them all look stupid. It doesn't help that I have two college degrees, when the lot of them barely made it out of high school."

Clark winced. "That…might not be the best argument to make, angel. Not everyone can be as smart as you."

"That's not the point!" Bruce objected heatedly. "I don't hold their backgrounds against them. But they constantly make assumptions about me without any facts. None of them know anything about me, what I'm trying to do. They don't know me at all—"

"Have you given them an opportunity?"

Bruce raised his head, turned on his side so he was also propped up on his elbow, and they could talk face-to-face.

"To do what?"

"To get to know you? You're not exactly approachable, angel."

Bruce was silent, studying him intently, with eyes that were dark in the shadows roaming the bedroom. "Harvey was probably right," he said, falling back on the bed and sighing. "I should have just gone to law school."

Clark growled, shifted until he had Bruce pinned underneath him, hands up and captured at the sides of his head. "He's not right about anything where you're concerned."

"He's a friend of mine, Clark. My best friend."

"All he wants is to get inside you, angel." Clark leaned in, stole a kiss, felt the keen edge of desire when Bruce's eyelashes fluttered closed as he explored his mouth. "He has an agenda where you're concerned," he continued. "It's written all over his face."

"Stop being crass." Bruce angled up, until Clark relented and kissed him again.

"You're the one with your mind in the gutter," Clark said, letting Bruce come up for air. "I said he wants inside you. It's nothing physical—or, at least, the physical is the least of it. He wants to protect you, control you— _ **be**_ you." Clark paused, staring down at the handsome guy who was so different from the face that had just been conjured in his mind's eye.

 _Lex._

"I know the type," Clark continued. "Though he only shows you his friendly side, he's a danger to you."

The hard press of their pelvises, each to the other, was becoming troublesome. Clark let Bruce go, and rolled to the side. He could see the curiosity, the beginning hint of confusion, as he placed some distance between them and they settled into their prior positions, instead of taking their foreplay to the next level. Clark ignored eyes that held questions and simply rested a hand on Bruce's hip, starting a gentle movement of fingers there.

Bruce said slowly, "Sounds like you're talking about Lex, not Harvey—"

Clark cut him off. "I don't want to talk about Lex."

"Harvey's not Lex."

Clark shrugged. "You're right. He's not. Lex puts his cards on the table."

Clark could tell he had struck a nerve, and it likely had something to do with him speaking of Lex in the present tense, when everybody agreed he had been killed in that plane crash.

Bruce fell onto his back, away from Clark's hand. "He's not coming back, Clark," he said, and his voice was tight. "You have to stop acting like he's coming back."

Clark rolled onto his back, too. Crossed his arms under his head and stared at the ceiling.

"He's not," Bruce said again.

Clark ignored him.

"Clark…" Silence. "You're just going to ignore me now?"

"I told you I don't want to talk about Lex. I don't need you to tell me what I have to _do."_

"Fine."

Clark nodded and glanced to the side. "I don't want to talk about _Harvey,_ either. He's a clown."

This time, Bruce ignored him, but Clark had had enough. He reached out and pulled a reluctant Bruce closer, until their foreheads could touch, until they were breathing the same air.

Clark placed a light kiss on his lips, the barest touch of skin. "I don't know why you're there, then," he said, restarting their conversation about the academy, leaving other relationships behind in the dust. "You're rich. You don't need to work. There are a hundred ways a person with your kind of money could change Gotham City. You don't need to risk your life—"

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me."

And Bruce did. Until the early morning light started to chase the nighttime shadows away, he talked about his hopes and fears, his motivations, his aspirations, and Clark finally felt he had an understanding of why a guy like Bruce Wayne, a guy so far above the average person in every way, would choose a career alongside people with whom he had so little in common, who were hazing him, treating him badly, hoping for him to fail. Certainly, he knew Lex would never subject himself to such a process. As Clark studied Bruce's profile and listened closely to the tone of his voice as much as to the words, he couldn't help comparing Bruce to Lex in some ways. He couldn't help admitting that as far as billionaires go, perhaps his missing best friend didn't compare quite as favorably as he'd like. Bruce was unique, in so many ways.

Sentences were coming few and far between, now. Clark had his head resting in the crook of Bruce's neck, stuck a tongue out to taste skin, to make a wet line up to an earlobe and capture it between his teeth. Their legs were tangled together, and Clark allowed a hand to roam across a flank, and fingers to find a way under the waistband of Bruce's boxer shorts. Breath hitched. Bruce moved closer as Clark's hand navigated fabric—until his hand could cup semi-hard flesh. Bruce moaned, low in his throat, and tried to maneuver so he could extend the same courtesy, but Clark stilled him with a squeeze and a shift that gave him unfettered access to a mouth made for his kisses. Clark started a languid exploration, punctuated by a hand that performed the gentlest massage, as Bruce lay supine, eyes closed and receiving.

As the morning sun rose, Clark stroked and stroked and stroked Bruce to a peaceful sleep.

+

Bruce woke with a start and glanced at the clock on the nightstand by the bed. Nine o'clock. _Shit._ He was late for class.

Everything in the room was blurred by a wash of mid-morning sunshine. He could see the windows, and they were like bright white doorways to another world, a world of obligations, and dedication, and the limits and boundaries that had defined his entire life. Briefly, he considered getting up. Being late was a long way from being absent. But just then, Clark shifted, pulling him closer, and Bruce relinquished the idea of getting out of bed entirely. Like a release of doves, the notion fled his mind. He let himself sink back into the bedding, into the feeling of having a warm body curled into his side, of a leg thrown over his possessively, an arm heavy across his stomach.

If he had known, during those few years at Princeton, what it would feel like to sleep a whole night wrapped in someone's arms—the comfort, the relief of an ache he sometimes admitted was loneliness—maybe things would have been different. If he had known, he might have allowed one of the few he'd dallied with to stay, or maybe he would have availed himself of an invitation to spend the night in someone's dorm room or apartment. But it had never seemed worthwhile—pretending, encouraging the pretense, making more of something that meant so little when compared to his goals and ambitions.

None of those others were like Clark, though. Clark had lured him to intimacy with brilliance and with shadows, with the potential and the realized existing in one fascinating young man from Smallville. It was a combination Bruce found heady, irresistible, that wouldn't allow him to stay away.

Bruce turned in the bed carefully, so he could study the face of the person sleeping next to him. Clark frowned a little at the disturbance, and managed an unconscious repositioning that again had their legs tangled and Bruce pulled to him as closely as was possible. Bruce reached out a finger and lightly brushed it across a high cheekbone, feeling a warm buoyancy expand inside his chest, as if his heart were floating upward, swelling in size, expanding in shape.

He was in love with Clark Kent, he realized. _This…feeling—it had to be love._ Always before, his heart had been filled with the constant weightless passage of unshed tears, the phantoms of past tragedy moving through still caverns, filled with the nightmares that had to be suffered through— _never shared._ The constant aloneness had been his only companion—the ghost of his mother standing at his right hand, the shadow of his father looming behind. A lifetime's lack of ordinary familial affection creating hard, barren spaces inside.

Until Clark came. The whole of his life— _nothing was his own._ The family name, the money, the tragedy belonging to an entire city, the prestige, the manor, the legacy and the dedication—the mission. Everything in his life had been thrust upon him, were remnants of an aborted life he'd never had a chance to actually live. He had never really chosen anything for himself.

 _Until he had chosen Clark._

Clark mumbled in his sleep. Watching him, Bruce sighed and promised himself that, somehow, he'd figure out a way to make this work. Somehow, he'd keep Clark safe, he'd protect him from anyone who would try to do him harm. He'd help Clark see that, together, nothing else was needed, that anything in the world was possible. And one day, everything would be just _right,_ and Clark would realize that he loved him, too.

Bruce leaned in, brushed his lips against Clark's lightly. Smiled as Clark whispered his name… _Bruce_ …and pulled him in. He buried his face in Clark's hair, inhaled his unique scent and closed his eyes, the sweetness of an imaginary world dissolving beneath drowsy eyelids.

+

 _Later that same day…at a park…in Metropolis…_

"This is how you spend the day?" Bruce asked, incredulously. "Running hustles?'

Clark chuckled. "A guy's gotta eat."

Bruce looked towards the twenty or so men congregating on the basketball courts. They were all older, and tall, and looked…like serious players, like all they did was play basketball all day long. No jobs for them. Bruce reached out and grabbed Clark by the arm.

"But—"

"Relax, angel," Clark chuckled, shrugging him off. "Just follow my lead." He started to back peddle. "You do know how to play basketball?"

"Of course, but—"

Clark turned, started jogging towards the group. "Then trust me, and stop worrying."

Bruce cursed under his breath, and followed Clark into the crowd.

When it was over and as Clark knelt to pick up his pile of money off the ground, Bruce had to admit, it was an exhilarating feeling, being on the winning side. His only concern now was the guys eyeing them suspiciously and talking in low tones.

"Let's go," he said. A repeat of the night at the motorcycle race was to be avoided at all costs.

It was only as they cleared the park and were walking towards his apartment building that Bruce started questioning Clark about his amazing ability not to miss a shot.

"Where did you learn to play basketball like that?" he asked.

Clark smirked. "I grew up playing basketball. Didn't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"Jonathan had a hoop on the barn door," Clark continued. "I used to play with friends all the time."

Bruce looked over at Clark, eyebrows raised. "But—you didn't miss a shot."

"I'm a guy of many talents." Clark grinned. "You'd be surprised at what I can do."

They picked up some Chinese take-out and headed back to the apartment, where they ate and showered and changed clothes. It was all very companionable, and Bruce was only a little concerned that Clark seemed not at all interested in…anything. Bruce had become accustomed to Clark's aggressive physicality, and it was an odd change for him not to at least _try_ to turn every interaction between them into a make-out session. Clearly, Clark enjoyed his company, but the intensity of their time together in the club or in Clark's apartment was missing. It was…so strange, especially after their time together in bed this morning.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, as Clark moved past him to the refrigerator. He was so quiet—

Clark glanced over at him quizzically, his hair wet and sticking to his face from his recent shower. "No." He shook his head. "Why?"

Bruce shrugged. "No reason."

Clark settled in the living room, in front of the TV. Still feeling a certain sense of worry swirling in the pit of his stomach, Bruce decided to phone someone to see what he'd missed in class. That conversation lasted until dusk had fallen and had him upset. A last minute written assignment had been distributed and a surprise test scheduled for tomorrow. He would have to spend the evening getting caught up. He settled at his desk on the other side of the living room and started working.

At about nine o'clock, Clark got up and stretched, then disappeared into his room. Bruce noticed, but it was only with the dregs of his attention. He was busy reviewing some of the more convoluted laws that enabled an arrest—at least, until Clark reentered the room with his hair slicked back, dressed in jeans and a black sleeveless t-shirt, clearly ready to go out for the evening.

Bruce set his pen down.

"Are you coming out tonight, angel?" Clark asked as he opened the coat closet and retrieved his leather jacket. He started looking around for his keys.

Something had lodged itself in his throat, making it hard for him to speak. "I have work to do," Bruce said, carefully. "Where are you going? I thought you said you needed to lay low."

"The club's not the only place to hang out, angel." Clark located his keys, shrugged into his jacket. "You should come." He headed for the door.

The paralysis that had held him frozen finally released him. Bruce was across the room and grabbing Clark by the arm before he could exit the apartment.

"Wait," he said. "You can't just leave—"

Clark looked at him like he was a strange strain of fungus.

"Edge's guys just attacked you with guns," Bruce added quickly. "Do you really think you should be hanging out alone?"

"Who said I'd be alone?" Clark smirked. "Listen, I'll be fine. I can take care of myself." At Bruce's skeptical look, he added, "You can come with—"

"I _can't,"_ Bruce said, voice rising. "I have an exam tomorrow. I can't run around every night."

Clark pulled away, nodding. "That's fine—"

"Clark, you can't—"

"Can't what?" Clark interrupted, a frown on his face. "Go out? Go out without you? I'm not a domesticated house pet, angel. You knew the deal before you invited me here." He unlocked the door, made his way into the hallway. "Maybe staying here wasn't such a good idea, after all. I have my own life to live—"

The door shut, and Bruce was in the apartment alone. For a minute he tried to process what had just happened, but then he gave up, cursed Clark's stubbornness under his breath, his lack of common sense He briefly considered following him before his own pride and stubbornness exerted itself. Besides, he hadn't the slightest idea where Clark would go, if the club and the apartment were off limits.

The realization that Clark was gone, and that he had not one clue where to find him, caused his stomach to churn uneasily, but Bruce settled at his desk and tried to complete his work, though every stray noise caused him to look up at the door.

Around eleven o'clock, Harvey called, and for a while Bruce lost himself in his friend's verbal antics, settling on the sofa and turning the television on mute. Time passed, and, eventually, he dimmed the lights and turned the channel to an old movie that he watched even though he was tired, and it was late enough for him to go to bed.

He was waiting for Clark, though he refused to admit it. He fell asleep like that, on the sofa, waiting.

+

Clark stalked into Morgan Edge's office, acting like he had a chip on his shoulder. In fact, he did. He was about to start busting heads, if Edge didn't back off.

"Kal," Edge acknowledged, waving his bodyguards away and indicating Clark should seat himself in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk.

Clark ignored the gesture, leaned over the desk and growled at the white-haired gangster menacingly. "I want your guys to back off," he said. "A few broken bones are the least they can expect if I see them around again."

Edge leaned back in his chair. "There was no need for violence, Kal. I sent them to talk."

Clark scoffed. "I wasn't aware you needed to point a gun at someone in order to _talk."_

"No," Edge agreed, "but it does lend the conversation a certain seriousness. You've been avoiding me. I had to do something." He looked at his nails. "I have a reputation to maintain. I'm sure you understand."

Clark was quickly losing his patience. Clearly this man needed a reminder of who had the power in this situation. He began to move forward.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Edge warned. He picked up a large manila envelope and threw it across the desk in Clark's direction.

Clark made a disdainful noise that consisted of a sharp exhalation of breath through flaring nostrils, thought briefly about putting Edge through the wall and ignoring whatever power play the envelope represented, but he reached out anyway, palmed the offering and opened the flap, pulling out a set of pictures. Of Bruce.

He threw them on the desk disdainfully. "Why give me these?"

Edge smirked. "I think we need to set some new ground rules, figure out who's the boss and who's the employee, kid. I would hate for any harm to come to your… _friend."_

Clark started laughing—loudly. He shook his head, turned and headed towards the door. Edge's bodyguards moved to stop him.

Right before he reached the exit and the inevitable confrontation with the Edge's goons, he heard the gangster call out behind him.

"Don't anybody mean anything to you, kid?"

Clark turned around slowly. "That's Bruce _Wayne_ in those pictures, as I'm sure you know. Wayne of Gotham City. Rich as fuck _Wayne._ He's a mark, a meal ticket, that's all." Clark shrugged. "I'm setting him up for a big hit. He means nothing to me other than a free ride." Clark shook his head, as if he couldn't believe Edge's stupidity. "Wait—you didn't think I gave a shit about him…did you?" Clark laughed. "Hold that thought."

Edge's goons stepped into his path as Clark made to leave. He threw all three of them through the door, faster than it took for any of them to take their next breath.

Clark glanced behind him. "Next time I put you through the wall," he warned.

Edge was across the room, gabbing his arm. "Wait, Kal, let's talk about this." His voice was wheedling, and Clark almost laughed out loud at the irony. "I think we got off on the wrong foot here. There's no need for violence."

"You were the one who threatened me."

"That was just to get your attention, Kal. Of course, I didn't mean anything by it. I value our relationship. I think you'd agree it has been mutually beneficial. I was just concerned that you were trying to back out of our deal. Communication is very important in business, Kal, and I hadn't heard from you."

Clark shrugged him off. "I was busy."

"Of course," Edge agreed. "A guy like you must have many pokers in the fire. This is my fault for being impatient. What can I do to fix this?"

Clark acted like he was considering the gangster's question, but, really, he simply wanted him to squirm on the hook. He knew exactly what he wanted out of Edge.

"I think it's about time I blew this city," Clark mused. "Things are getting tight, and I'm about ready to flip the switch on Wayne . I'll need to lay low." He shrugged. "I've done everything I'd said I'd do for you, made you more money than twenty of your flunkies combined. I think it's time we ended this."

Edge shook his head. "Kal—"

"I don't want to leave you in the lurch, though," Clark continued, ignoring him. "I'm sensitive like that. Let's say you pick one more job—something priceless, something you want but no one can get it for you. No matter what it is—I'll handle it. When I deliver, you give me my papers. Our business will be concluded and you bid me a fond farewell." Clark tilted his head. "How does that sound?"

The Intergang crime boss stared at him.

"Do we have a deal?"

Clark reached out a hand. Edge took it.

Fifteen minutes later he left the office with a new job outline, satisfied that he had Edge under control again and had taken care of all of his problems. Outside of the warehouse, he paused, allowed his super hearing to expand, until he could clearly hear the spectacular tantrum Edge was throwing in his office. He listened as Edge screamed that he had no intention of letting some hick kid from Smallville get the drop on him, and that someone had better find out if Bruce Wayne meant anything to him, and if he doesn't, to find someone who does.

Scowling, Clark was more than a little annoyed to still hear Bruce's name coming out of Edge's mouth, but he was pretty sure the angel was safe, for the time being. As long as Clark kept things in perspective, kept up a profile that was consistent with the story he'd just told Edge, and stayed close by to provide protection while he wrapped up this business with the gangster, things should work out fine.

It was late, but not too late to find some action. There was the pool hall, the strip club—any number of ways to keep himself entertained. He could even go back to Club Atlantis, now that he'd straightened things out with Edge…but what he really wanted to do was go back to the apartment. See Bruce. It…bothered him to think that Bruce could need him during the night when he wasn't there. That the angel was in that big ass apartment alone. But then Clark scowled, as he steered his motorcycle away from the curb and pointed it in the direction of downtown Metropolis. He was being ridiculous, soft. Bruce was special—but he wasn't _that_ special. The angel was too used to having things his own way, was always trying to control everything. It would be ridiculous to let Bruce get it into his head that Clark was some sort of pet on a chain, that they were—

 _The strip club, then,_ he decided. _Definitely, the strip club._

It was approaching three in the morning when he finally made it back to the apartment. He opened the door to find the TV on, but muted, and Bruce asleep on the sofa, in a position Clark was sure would leave him with a stiff neck in the morning. He turned off the television and carefully picked Bruce up in his arms. He set him down on his bed in his room, made sure the sheet was tucked up around him and the alarm clock was set.

Only after he had Bruce settled did he take a moment to study him in the soft moonlight. The desire to join Bruce in bed was a pull—but he ignored it. He went into his room, showered, changed, and rested for a few hours. He made sure he was gone again by the time Bruce woke up.


	14. No Other Way

**XIII. No Other Way**

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._   
_I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_   
_so I love you because I know no other way…_

+

_Late afternoon…the next day…at the Wayne penthouse…_

"Hey."

Bruce looked up briefly from the day's newspaper. "Hey," he acknowledged, then resumed his reading. He had an awareness of Clark staring at him, and moving around the apartment, but he refused to pay him any mind.

Clark threw himself on the sofa at his side, all six-feet of him taking up more space than was necessary. Still, Bruce kept his face buried in the paper, but he did shift over so he was as far away from Clark as was humanly possible within the limits of a single piece of furniture.

"You're mad."

Bruce glanced up, glared. "I am _not_ mad."

Clark was chewing gum. He blew a half-bubble, causing the gum to snap loudly. "You sure seem mad," he said, tone dubious.

"Goes to show you how much you _know."_

"Okay." Clark held up his hands in surrender. He leaned back on the sofa, propped his feet on the coffee table and starting humming a pop tune.

They sat like that for what seemed to Bruce to be ages. With Clark fidgeting and humming and cracking his stupid gum right next to him, it was impossible to concentrate on anything, let alone the business pages.

"So…" Clark said, voice drawn out and speculative, "how long do you think you're going to be mad at me?"

Bruce threw the newspaper down. _"I am not mad."_

Clark nodded. "So, how long do you think you're going to be _not_ mad at me?"

 _He is such an ass!_ Bruce exploded up from the sofa, stalked to the balcony doors and pressed a hand against the cool glass, looking out over Metropolis and breathing deep, trying to control his temper.

For a few minutes, there was nothing but silence in the apartment. It was so quiet Bruce had to wonder if Clark had retreated to a bedroom, but he refused to look. If Clark was still sitting on the sofa, smirking and acting like nothing was wrong…he wasn't sure what he'd do…

Bruce jumped at the touch of a hand to the nape of his neck.

"How was your test, angel?"

"Fine." He shrugged out from under Clark's hand, opened the glass door and stepped onto the balcony. The sun was going down slowly, over the horizon, and a warm summer breeze ruffled his hair. Bruce walked to the stone balustrade and leaned on it, arms folded. Clark took a place on his right side.

"You left," Bruce said, voice accusing. "You didn't even say where you were going, _or when you'd be back."_ He glanced to his right, scowled. "That's just rude."

Clark chuckled, but cut it off abruptly at Bruce's vicious glare. "So your problem with me is you think I'm rude?"

In a swift movement, Clark had him by the shoulders and had pulled him into his arms. "Let me go," Bruce said, rebelliously, squirming and trying to find leverage to push Clark away, but the farmboy was like an immovable brick wall, with steel bands for arms. "Clark," his voice lowered to a dangerous level, "let me go."

"No."

Clark leaned in, kissed him. _Kissed him._ The sensation was like an electrical shock to his brain, his stomach, his cock, all at once.

"I'm sorry," Clark groaned, pushing Bruce back to the wall and grinding against him. "For being _rude."_

The kisses made his head spin. He was supposed to be mad at Clark for being such an _ass,_ but right now, it was impossible to think of anything rational. Not when Clark had a hand in his hair, cupping the back of his head, and his mouth was everywhere, nibbling lips, devastating his mouth, making its way across his chin. Clark kissed the tip of his nose, sucked on his neck. It was impossible to think of anything—

Until it all stopped, and the world reasserted itself. Clark was on the other end of the balcony, _so suddenly,_ settling onto one of the chaise lounges. Bruce had to hold onto the stone railing so his weak knees wouldn't buckle, betraying him. It was with more than a little consternation that Bruce stared over at Clark's new location, so far away from where he had been just two seconds ago.

"I went to see Edge," Clark called out.

That snapped Bruce back to reality. "You _what?"_ he said, striding over and falling onto the lounge chair next to him. "By yourself? _Why, Clark?_ What were you thinking? I thought we agreed you'd lay _low."_

"That would have never worked, angel. You can't just ignore the boss who runs the _entire_ criminal underground for the _entire_ city."

"But—"

"There wasn't any other way. I had to talk to him," Clark said, interrupting. "You'd be in danger if I didn't straighten this all out." Clark's lips quirked. "No place is safe, not even this apartment in the sky."

Bruce took a deep breath. "What happened?"

"I went over to the warehouse. We talked. We came to an agreement."

"What agreement?" Bruce groaned. "Clark, what did you agree to do?"

Bruce watched as Clark's sharp blue eyes shied away. On the balcony, with the entire Metropolis skyline as a backdrop, his eyes were never any bluer. Bruce felt his stomach clench. Why did Clark insist on doing things his own way without any consultation whatsoever? Why did he always rush in without any backup? How was he supposed to protect him if he refused—

"I did what you wanted me to do," Clark said, leaning forward, like he was offering Bruce a gift. "One more job. One more job, then I'm out."

"One more job," Bruce repeated slowly. "What kind of job, Clark?"

Clark sat back, frowned sullenly. "That's not the point. You wanted me to quit Intergang. After this one job, I'll have everything I need. Edge promised me my papers, and it'll all be over. You can stop worrying about me now."

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, stared at Clark, aghast. "Clark—"

"It's what you said you wanted, angel." Clark's voice was tight with anger. "It's everything you said you wanted."

"I wanted you away from them!" Bruce exploded. "Not entering into some bargain with the devil! You can't tell me you trust Edge to live up to his end of the deal. You're not _that_ stupid. And what did you agree to do? You can't seriously be thinking about committing another crime for this man. What if—"

 _"What do you want me to do?"_ Clark's voice was raised, too. "You're living in a dream world if you think I can just walk away, hide up here in your apartment and eventually Edge will forget all about me. This isn't _Princeton._ This isn't some secluded estate on a hill in Gotham. This is the real world, angel. They're not going to come after me, _they're going to come after you._ Do you want me to leave you here? I could be so far away from Metropolis that Edge would never find me, but what about you, your life? They have pictures of _you—"_

"Pictures."

"Yes," Clark said, voice lowering to a more reasonable level. "I'm sorry, angel. But I've taken care of it. One job and I'm out. One job and you'll be _safe."_

"Tell me."

"Edge has guys watching me all the time, trying to find what he calls _leverage._ They've seen me with you, snapped some pictures." Clark stopped, shook his head. "If you hadn't been so damn persistent—Edge threw them in my face, tried to threaten me by threatening you."

Bruce stared. "What did you do?"

"I told him you meant nothing to me. That you were a meal-ticket, a mark that I was hustling." Clark was grinning as if it was all a big joke, but Bruce didn't find the situation funny at all.

"Good thing you're richer than God, angel, because he bought it. I told him I was about ready to make my move, and I'd have to get out of Metropolis for a while after it all went down. We agreed on one more big job for the papers, and then it'll be over."

"You'll leave Metropolis."

Clark shrugged. "I guess I'll have to for a while. I was getting tired of this city anyway."

Bruce nodded, distracted by a bird winging its way across the twilit sky. He dragged his eyes back to Clark's face when he heard his name.

"Bruce?"

"I think we should have a contingency plan," Bruce said, and the words seemed to drag. "Just in case things don't work out exactly as you planned." He got up, noticed Clark looking at him oddly, but he ignored it. He headed back into the apartment.

By the time he reached his desk, he had a viable contingency plan worked out in his head. He explained to Clark they should continue working on a file of Edge's operations. If anything went south, it might be useful as leverage of their own, either with Edge, with the competition or with the police. Reluctantly, Clark agreed, but as they started laying out his intel, Clark became more than a little excited about the project.

Later that evening, Bruce watched as Clark attached index cards to a diagram that covered an entire wall, his whole attention absorbed by his work on the expanding network. It gave Bruce time, _finally,_ to replay their earlier conversation in his head. Dissect it. Study it from every angle, until all he was left with was a sinking suspicion, an insidious near-certainty. _Clark would never care more for him than he did any other person._ Their relationship was simply convenient, because he had been _persistent._ That Clark had, at some point, considered him a mark, a rich guy to lead around by the nose—or else why would such an explanation occur to him at all?

Bruce studied Clark's back, muscles flexing in a red crew cut shirt as he continued to build his diagram. Clark had gone to see Morgan Edge last night, but where had he spent the rest of the night, after the conversation with Edge that couldn't have taken more than an hour? Where had he been all day? _Who had he spent his time with?_ What if some other person was the reason why Clark seemed so uninterested in anything beyond making out. Harvey had said Clark was playing games, making a fool out of him. _What if Harvey was right?_

What if Clark had always intended— _still intended_ —to simply leave?

Clark turned around, caught Bruce's eyes with a look that was quizzical, as if he could hear every doubtful question. Then he grinned, and threw the index cards in the air—and tackled Bruce on the sofa. It was all so sudden. Clark was laughing hysterically while pinning Bruce and trying to tickle him. His teeth flashed white, his eyes sparkled like blue diamonds as he leaned in and stole kiss after kiss while Bruce squirmed and tried to get away, threatening Clark with serious bodily injury if he didn't leave off the tickling. But Clark had him well and truly captured, like a butterfly on a pin, and there was no way to escape. Clark tickled him until he was laughing so hard tears were streaming down his face. Still the farmboy showed no mercy. It was only when his breathing started to hitch, and he was clearly having difficultly pulling air into his lungs around the hiccups that Clark relented.

As Bruce calmed down, he blinked and studied a perfect, smiling face that was now mere inches from his own. Clark leaned in, and with his tongue swept up a stray line of moisture that trailed down a cheek. Kissed him. _Kissed him._

Bruce could taste the saltiness of tears on Clark's lips.

Hands, shirts rucked up to armpits so that skin could touch skin, the frantic grinding of hardness, restrained by jeans, of like against like. It would have made so much _sense,_ for their manic press to ascend to the next level. Bruce tried for it, pushing at the waistband of Clark's jeans, trying to slide them over hips and down. When Clark pulled away, Bruce could have yelled out his frustration. _No one should have this much self-control._ No one should be able to pull away if this wasn't a game, _if **this** was what was wanted._

Clark was already tucking in his shirt, closing the front of his pants and smoothing his hair. Confused, but unwilling to show it, all Bruce could do was follow suit.

"Are you coming out tonight, angel?"

Clark had located his keys, his jacket.

Bruce had work to do, prep work for class tomorrow.

"Yeah," he said, slowly. "Give me a minute."

He walked into his bedroom, opened the closet and found a change of clothes, went into the bathroom to wash up with an ear towards Clark's movements in the other room. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, a stranger he barely recognized, someone who _needed_ something more than he needed the rational world. What would Harvey say, what would Alfred say, if they saw him right now? He stared at his reflection for a moment, before finishing up and heading to the living room where Clark looked him over with a huge smile, saying he looked good enough to eat.

As he locked the apartment door, Bruce realized he didn't care what Harvey would say, or Alfred, or anyone at all. It was too late. One of them should have told him about _this,_ this _**thing.**_ One of them should have warned him: _Love is nothing but the beginning of terror—the extreme fear of loss._

The extreme fear of loss.

He couldn't lose Clark.

He would do anything, _be_ anything—

There was a way to have the moment, and the elongation of the moment— _there had to be._ There were answers, a path that didn't end in fear, in loneliness, _in always being alone._ That path was with Clark. The way was the two of them—together.

+

_Later that same week…at Club Atlantis…_

There was something wrong with Bruce, something…different, Clark decided, as he watched Bruce from his seat at the bar. Bruce was dancing with a dark-haired girl who had attached herself to him earlier in the evening. Their movements were intense, intimate, so very much like an act of sex. Clark couldn't exactly pinpoint what had changed with Bruce over the last few days…but he liked it.

Then, later, as Bruce threw back a shot of tequila, chasing it with beer, without having to be coaxed; as he allowed some random admirer to touch him, touch his face, his hair, until Clark had to interrupt, growling his disapproval—he finally figured it out. There was no longer any trace of caution in him. Beautiful, flushed as with fever, Bruce threw himself into everything he had at one time disdained, submitted to every excess from deep inside his interior world, seeking, it seemed, to perfect this degeneration, too, as he had everything else in his life.

Every new surrender was a dark, singular display, so wild, so magnificent to watch. It created in Clark a hunger.

It created in him a need.

And, perhaps, that was what Bruce wanted, Clark supposed, as he watched his angel spread his wings, always watching, protecting. To have the power to jerk him around, rile him up with a stray encounter, calm him down with a kiss. To have the power to drag him outside into the night on a whim, no longer the restraint—now the accelerant. Inciting him to crazy stunts that had Bruce standing on the back of his motorcycle, while Clark sped through the streets of Metropolis; that had them climbing up to the towering heights of the Broadway Bridge, walking across the thinnest balustrade a hundred floors high. Taking risk after exhilarating risk.

Clark reveled in his seduction, ceded Bruce the power that was, in him, so untamed, so glorious. They were perfect together— _now,_ and matched, living life as it was meant to be lived, on the edge, with no caution, no restraints.

Except each other.

+

_Later that same week…in the office of the captain of cadets…at the Metropolis police academy…_

Bruce stood at attention, waiting for the captain to glance up from the papers on his desk. He waited patiently but he wasn't looking forward to this conversation. Not at all.

Finally, the captain spared some attention for his visitor.

"Cadet, do you know why I asked you here?"

"No, sir."

"I think you do." The captain looked him over distastefully, as if he had just added lying to a long list of unsavory characteristics. "Let me make this quick, cadet. I don't know what has gotten into you lately, but money won't buy you a graduation ceremony. Not in Metropolis, not at my academy. The Wayne name is little more than a name in this city, just like any other. If you've gotten bored with this little project of yours, cadet, if you can't make it to class, finish your assignments on time, then, by all means, drop out now. You're taking up a spot that could be utilized by a real candidate."

The captain's gaze was like flint. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"So are we boring you, cadet?"

"No, sir."

"Are you about done gracing us with your presence?"

"No, sir."

"Then I suggest you get your ass in gear. Now, get out of my office."

Bruce saluted, turned on his heel, and exited.

+

_Later that same day...in a restaurant…on the west end of Metropolis…_

_He looks fine,_ Harvey mused to himself as he straightened in his seat and pocketed his cell phone. _Same aloof, oblivious bastard. Probably doesn't even notice that blond looking him over._

"Harv," Bruce said, taking his hand and patting his shoulder fondly before slipping into a seat.

"Bruce—glad you could make it."

"Of course. I just got out of class."

A pretty waitress came by and filled their water glasses.

"All part of my master plan," Harvey agreed, grinning. "Timing is everything. Catch you right after class, kill two birds with one stone: I get to see you in your dashing blue uniform," he reached out, fingered a collar with a bright gold cadet insignia pinned through it, "and I take away every excuse you could come up with to beg off." Harvey wagged a finger. "You've been avoiding me, my friend."

"I haven't," Bruce disagreed, opening his menu and ducking his head to study it. "I've just been—"

"Busy?" Harvey finished dryly. "I can imagine."

Bruce scowled, dark as a thundercloud. "Are you going to turn this into a lecture about Clark?"

"Of course not, tiger. Take it easy. You know me. I was just joking."

Bruce gazed at him skeptically, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to believe Harvey's protestations of innocence.

"But now that you mention it," Harvey continued, grinning, "how is our resident juvenile delinquent coming along? Any progress in getting him to go home?"

"He's not going home," Bruce said, frowning.

Harvey blinked. "Wait. What did I miss? I thought the plan was to extricate him from a bad situation and convince him to go home."

The waitress reappeared. They placed their orders, Harvey taking a minute to flirt with her while Bruce rolled his eyes.

When they were alone, Harvey leaned across the table and again asked, "What did I miss?"

"He's had some problems at home," Bruce said. "Serious problems, with his father. I can't send him back there." Bruce shrugged, sipped from his glass of water. "Besides, he won't go."

Harvey lounged back in his seat and studied his friend, more than a little perplexed. It almost seemed as if Bruce didn't _want_ a solution to the problem of Clark—but that was ridiculous, because it wasn't as if the kid could stay with him indefinitely.

The food arrived. They waited while their plates were arranged on the table and started to eat.

"I have a solution," Harvey offered, mouth full of salad. "I called my father."

Bruce was watching him now, with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable.

"I explained the situation, without naming names, of course, but he'd be willing to find a spot for Clark at Chamanade. He'd be able to finish high school, and would be in a great position to get into a good college." Harvey stopped eating, poked his fork in the air, grinned wide and irreverent. "I told dad you wouldn't mind paying, since Clark is something of a pet project. Clark would have everything—room, board, tutors if he needs them, and since my dad's on the board of trustees, he'd have at least one person to keep an eye out for him." The school was also located on the other side of the continent—the best part of the deal, in Harvey's opinion.

"That would solve everything, Bruce. Don't you think?"

Bruce placed his fork on the table carefully. He'd hardly touched his food. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it just won't work, Harvey."

"Why not? It's the perfect solution—"

"Clark won't go—"

Harvey heard the unvoiced part of that sentence loud and clear: _…and I don't want him to go._

There was a knot. It settled at the back of his throat.

"Then what's the plan, Bruce? What's the plan?"

Serious blue eyes settled on him with just a hint of sympathy, enough to make Harvey want to bash his friend's face in.

"I've been thinking. You were right," Bruce said slowly. "About the academy. It's not…going as well as I thought it would."

Harvey tried to recapture some of his usual bravado. "You're too blue blood," he agreed, smirking. "That's the problem, and the police academy is not Princeton. Cops are too...cop-like, too limited in scope. It was a great idea, Bruce, but it wouldn't have worked in the long run."

"I was thinking about applying to law school, like you suggested," Bruce explained, and Harvey nodded enthusiastically. He liked the sound of this.

"But…I think I'll travel first, see some of the world."

Harvey stopped smiling. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help but sound appalled.

"And you want to take Clark with you."

Bruce nodded.

Harvey stared across the table at the person who used to be his quite predictable best friend. The guy who had just announced he was going to give up on the police academy and flee the country with a juvenile delinquent in tow—and announced all of this with a straight face. What had happened to the Bruce Wayne who refused to fail at anything he set his mind to? The academy was obviously not working out as planned, but he'd never seen Bruce just give up on anything. It wasn't in his make-up. Who was this new Bruce Wayne who was sitting across the table from him, with the same impeccable face as his friend from college, the same upper crust manners? _Who the hell was this stranger?_

"Clark agreed to this?"

"Not…yet."

Harvey sighed. Perhaps this wasn't as bad as it seemed. He seriously doubted a kid like Clark would put his whole life aside to go traipsing around Europe. To a runaway, Europe was another planet, and hustling was an addiction all its own.

"You think just because he's staying with you he'd agree to leave everything he's familiar with? Bruce—he's a runaway. It's never that easy." Harvey picked up his fork, looked down at his plate and started pushing his food around.

They finished their lunch in contemplative silence. Harvey was upset this little bit of time they had together had been spoiled.

"When do classes start?" Bruce asked.

"First week of August. There's a three-week legal methods workshop we have to take before our full schedule starts in September." Harvey tried to grin around the sour taste in his mouth. It worked, for the most part. "I'm actually looking forward to it."

"While enjoying every last minute of your freedom."

"They say in law school you don't have time for anything except studying. I have to get all my partying in now." Harvey wiped his mouth with his napkin as the waitress placed the check on the table. Bruce palmed it, but Harvey grabbed it out of his hand. "Give me that," he said. "My idea, my treat."

He pulled out his wallet. "Lex's funeral is tomorrow—did you know? The old man finally gave up. Called off the search."

Harvey watched as Bruce froze, like a deer in headlights, before blinking and saying, "I hadn't heard."

"It's in the newspaper today. Front page."

"Are you going?"

Harvey shrugged a shoulder. He'd never been particularly fond of Lex. "I guess it would be the height of bad form not to," he said, considering. "He was a classmate, and he is dead. You?"

Bruce nodded slowly.

Just then, Harvey remembered something. "Didn't you tell me that you met Clark with Lex?"

Bruce stared off into the distance as the waitress came and gathered their payment. Harvey couldn't help but wonder if that was fear he saw on Bruce's face, fear of admitting the truth: That Clark really was nothing but a hustler, a boy toy, a billionaire magnet, who had just pulled off the biggest trick of them all—switching one billionaire for another.

+

The apartment was empty when Bruce returned home from his late lunch with Harvey. He set his keys on the hook by the door and looked around, already feeling that tight coalescing in the pit of his stomach. He caught sight of the newspaper, sitting like a thing dead on the table, and knew he hadn't been the one to leave it there. He had left for class early that morning, before getting a chance to read it.

He walked over to it, ran fingers across the smirking photo of his classmate that covered a third of the front page, a headline that read: _R.I.P. Lex. Search Called Off – Funeral Friday._

So…ridiculous. The ending of an entire life summed up in two short sentences, with no compassion for those left behind, no consideration for anyone at all.

It was no surprise when Clark failed to return to the apartment that night, or that Bruce couldn't find him when he became frustrated and passed by the club, a little after midnight. What had Bruce worried, and pissed off, and, finally, afraid that something had changed irrevocably because of the _dead,_ because of the relinquishing of some futile hope held by Lex's only living relative, was that he found himself still asleep on the sofa when he woke up the morning of the funeral, instead of tucked safely and mysteriously in his own bed.

He woke up on the sofa the morning of the funeral—and it was as if Clark had disappeared from his life; it was as if Clark never existed at all.


	15. The Liquid Measure

**XIV. The Liquid Measure**

 _I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.  
Silent and starving, I prowl through the street.  
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day  
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps._

+

 _Friday…at the Woodlawn Cemetery…in Metropolis…_

 _"I think the cruelest fate a parent can suffer is to lose a child."_

Bruce shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with the hypocrisy that had Lionel Luthor, of all people, delivering this eulogy for the benefit of a small crowd of respectful, if unmoved, spectators. Lex had always called his father a bastard, spared no invective when describing their relationship. Bruce was sure there wasn't a person in attendance at this funeral whom Lex had considered a true friend. His gaze swept the area again, searching the long shadows cast by rows of cypress trees lining the walkways, hoping to catch sight of the one person Lex had seemed to care about.

Clark.

 _"Lex was touched with greatness. We had only just begun to see that greatness."_

Harvey elbowed him, eyebrows high and comical when Bruce looked his way, his whole face saying, pay attention and stop being rude. But Bruce couldn't help it. Clark wouldn't miss his friend's funeral, and if Bruce could just talk to him, convince him to—

Come home.

 _"I can only imagine the heights he would have soared to if his life hadn't been cut short…so tragically."_

An impeccably dressed young lady appeared, disrupting the ceremony. Bruce recognized her from the papers. She was the girl Lex had married, the girl who had mysteriously survived the plane crash on their honeymoon to inherit Lex's fortune and his share of the Luthor trust.

A big confrontation ensued—the girl, Lionel. Bruce watched dispassionately as the Luthor patriarch stormed away, leaving the crowd to mill about nervously. His eyes followed Lionel as he stalked towards the pavilion, and _there,_ standing in the shadows of a willow tree, was Clark.

Without conscious thought, Bruce was moving through the crowd.

He caught Clark's eyes as he rushed forward, noticed, in the way a person notices all the composite parts of a memorable moment, in slowest detail: how he was wearing a black dress shirt; how pale his skin was against the darkness of the fabric; how his face looked so terribly sad.

"Bruce!"

Bruce glanced over his shoulder briefly, realized Harvey was following him through the crowd, calling out his name. He ignored his friend, quickened his step, but when he turned, eagerly, Clark had disappeared, like an apparition, a ghost of unreasonable expectations. Bruce came to a halt, allowed Harvey to catch up.

"Bruce?"

He shouldn't blame Harvey—but if he hadn't distracted him…

"Whoa. What happened? What did _I_ do?"

"Nothing, Harvey," Bruce said, ducking his head. "Nothing."

"Okay…are you ready to go? I think the show is about over around here. The guys are heading to _Juliano's_ to drink a toast to our bald chum."

"You go," Bruce said, catching sight of a pretty redheaded woman and her tall, blond escort. Bruce recognized them from his research on Clark. They were his parents. "I'll meet you there," he reassured Harvey. "I have something to do first."

Harvey stared at him quizzically, an offer to wait for him so clearly on the tip of his tongue, but Bruce reached out and squeezed his friend's shoulder, saying, "Go. I'll be right behind you." He turned and walked towards the handsome couple now standing with a teenage girl, without giving Harvey a chance to further object. Sometimes, his overprotective streak was just—

"Mr. and Mrs. Kent?"

The couple turned sad, curious eyes on him.

"Yes?"

"My name is Bruce. I'm a friend of your son, Clark."

At the mention of Clark's name, they all stepped forward eagerly, Clark's parents and the blond girl standing at their side.

Mr. Kent grabbed his arm. "You know Clark?"

Bruce stared down at the large hand wrapped around his suit sleeve. This was the hand that had abused Clark, that had somehow placed that appalling brand on the center of his chest, The hand that had caused Clark to run away from home, incited the situation they were all currently in. It took all of his willpower not to snatch his arm away, but he maintained his facade. He needed information, he needed to make a personal assessment. There were so many unanswered questions about Clark Kent. He couldn't let this opportunity to speak to his parents pass by.

"I—met him, with Lex, last summer. We were all attending a charity function in Metropolis. Lex and I went to school together."

He watched Mrs. Kent's face fall into melancholy. "So you haven't seen Clark recently."

Bruce paused. _What to say?_

"No," he lied. "Not recently. I did run into him quite a few weeks back, but he seemed…different." Bruce shifted his gaze to Jonathan Kent. "He said something about being in the city on his own. I was just wondering—"

"Where?" Mr. Kent interrupted. "Where did you see him?"

"At one of the downtown clubs—the _Paladium,_ I think."

Bruce studied Jonathan carefully.

"Clark left home a few months ago," Martha Kent offered in a low voice. "We've been looking for him…"

"Why?" Bruce asked, eager now to know their truth, and in turn, something that would provide insight into Clark's. "Why did he run away?"

There was a prolonged silence. "It was a misunderstanding. An accident at the farm," Jonathan finally explained. "And Clark blamed himself. He—he left, before we could straighten things out."

Bruce tried to keep a frown from his face. That was one of the most oblique explanations of _anything_ he had ever heard. Drugs, running with the wrong crowd, problems with stepparents, abuse—those were the types of things that caused teens to run away from home. Not a simple accident. Not a one-time _misunderstanding._

Jonathan Kent touched his arm again. "Listen, is there anything else you can tell us, about Clark?"

Bruce shook his head with the right amount of regret. "No, nothing." He paused. "Is there anything you want me to tell him—if I do see him around?"

"Tell him we want him to come home," Martha Kent said, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Tell him to come home."

Bruce nodded.

He watched as Jonathan put his arm around his wife's shoulders. They took their leave, and he led his wife away.

Bruce was left standing with the petite blond girl who was studying him shrewdly.

"You know where Clark is," she said, her voice blunt and certain.

"Excuse me?"

"You know where Clark is."

Bruce gave her the once-over, curious. She was pretty, in a spunky high school sort of way. Her hair was short, her eyes were blue…and sharp. "What would make you say that?"

"You wouldn't come over here to see the Kents just to ask about a kid you met once at a charity function. You're Bruce… _Wayne._ Am I right?"

Bruce nodded his head slowly. "And you are?"

"Chloe. Chloe Sullivan." The young lady stuck out her hand. "I'm a friend of Clark's. We go—went—to school together." She grimaced, as if the realization of Clark's current missing status was galling. "Clark told me all about you. When he came back from that fundraiser last summer, he was acting like the biggest Bruce Wayne fanboy in the world. Bruce Wayne this. Bruce Wayne that. Hadn't seen him that excited about anyone since the day he met Lex. Made me look up everything there was to know about you—and there's quite a lot in the public record, let me tell you. You made quite an impression on him." She grinned cheekily, as if in fond remembrance. "I thought he was going to find a way to drag me to Gotham."

"I—he impressed me as well," Bruce said, at a loss at the notion of Clark thinking about him at all after their first meeting—and having this strange girl accost him with knowledge of it.

"I found Clark, too, a few weeks after he left," she continued, voice fast and excited. "I followed him from _Club Atlantis_ to an apartment complex where he stays." She frowned. "He's like a different person."

"He is…different," Bruce agreed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know where he is now, though. He took off when he found out about Lex's funeral. I haven't seen him, and I don't know if he'll be back around."

"Clark was close to Lex," Chloe stated, and, again, Bruce felt the jealous clenching in his stomach— _over a dead person._ "Very close. Somehow, it makes me feel a little better knowing there's a Clark in there somewhere who still cares about his friends. Last time I saw him, he…"

"What?"

"He threw me bodily out of his apartment, screamed in my face, threatened me. I thought—" Chloe frowned, remembering. "He scared me."

"That's why—"

"I didn't say anything to the Kents," Chloe continued. "He said he'd run again, if anyone else showed up on his doorstep. But you—you already know that."

Bruce tucked his hands in the pockets of his slacks and sighed.

"He—I don't know what he'll likely do, how to help him. He says he won't go home, that the Kents don't want him there. He seems so sure—"

Chloe interrupted, eyebrows raised. "I don't know what Clark's told you, but the Kents—they're the best parents in the world. And Clark being gone—it's killing them."

An image of the brand burned across Clark's chest. "Things aren't always the way they seem," Bruce contradicted.

"Yeah, well, with the Kents they are," Chloe said, confidently. "We're talking All-American apple pie."

What to say, in the face of a young girl's certitude? That she's wrong? That he has vicious, incontrovertible proof that something is not right with the Kents? "Is there anything you can tell me? About why he left? Anything at all—"

Bruce listened as Clark's friend Chloe explained about Martha Kent's miscarriage. How it was a result of an explosion at the farm that Clark somehow caused. The events sounded terrible, tragic, and in conjunction with the death of his best friend, Bruce could understand, somewhat, how Clark's life had spiraled out of control. But, still, there were so many unanswered questions—too many.

As the last few people started making their way towards the pavilion, Bruce took his leave of Chloe, somewhat more enlightened, after promising her he'd do whatever he could to help Clark should the opportunity arise.

Later, he met Harvey and their college friends at _Juliano's,_ drank much more than he should have, talked, joked around, pretended to enjoy himself, and, about midnight, entered his empty apartment. Alone.

Another day, another night, another morning without Clark.

+

 _The next day…on the Kent farm…in Smallville…_

Clark Kent felt the weight of the red Kryptonite ring, heavy in his pocket, as he touched familiar items scattered around the loft of the barn on the Kent farm, the hideaway that used to be his own private retreat, now an abandoned place of dust and neglect. A picture of his parents, mementos from his two years at Smallville High, books that Lex had given him to _refine his mind_ as Lex liked to say.

Remnants of a past life, one that no longer held a place for him.

 _What was he doing here?_

He stilled as his parents walked into the barn on the first floor, carrying boxes, loading them onto the back of his father's red pick-up truck. From the loft above, he watched them hungrily, unwilling— _unable_ —to announce his presence. Wondering, with a spiraling send of trepidation, what was going on.

Chloe—what had she said all those weeks ago when she had shown up, unannounced, at his apartment? _That the bank was foreclosing on the farm._

His mom—she looked so sad! She looked like she was trying so hard to be strong.

"I spoke to the bank," Martha said, her voice trying for a nonchalance that her face couldn't quite pull off. "They still want us out before the auction."

His father answered with his usual stoicism, but pain was etched deeply on his face. "It's amazing how you can fit your whole life in the back of a pick-up truck."

Martha nodded. "Is Bill Ross still okay with us storing our stuff in his garage?"

"Yeah, he said as long as we need it. It's fine with him."

"Oh…Lana gave me the keys to the apartment over the Talon."

"Great."

"Yeah, it's…it's small…"

Clark watched, appalled, as his mom broke into tears, and his father gathered her in his arms.

"It's just not fair. This farm has been in your family for three generations—four counting Clark."

"Sit down, Martha, please. Since when have our lives been fair anyway, huh? Do you remember the day we found out we couldn't have children?"

Martha nodded.

"You grabbed my hand and you told me not to worry. You said we would have happy days again. And you were right. We have had happy days. With Clark. But even though he's not here with us anymore, Martha Kent I am here to tell you we will have happy days again."

The baby, the farm—he had ruined their entire life. _Everything._ Because of him, his parents had lost the baby they never thought they could have; because of him they would lose the farm that had been in the Kent family for generations, they would be forced to live in some rented apartment above a coffeehouse. Because of him his mom was crying her eyes out. It was all his fault.

He didn't belong here. He brought pain and suffering to everyone in his life that he cared about. He needed to leave—

He turned, stumbled. A picture frame fell over.

"Clark! Clark!"

He heard his mother and father running up the stairs to the loft, as he used his super speed to exit, closed his ears to the sounds of his mother yelling his name into the wind—

 _"Clark!"_

And his father's response:

 _"You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."_

He reached in his pocket, put the red ring on his finger, shuddered as the Kryptonite made contact with his skin and a rush went straight through his veins and into his head. No, he didn't belong in Smallville. He had outgrown these people who had tied him down, hemmed him in his entire life. But there was a place for him now, a place where he belonged, where he was—happy.

 _Metropolis._

There was something there that belonged to him, that was his own.

 _Bruce._

+

The sky was low with overhanging clouds, gray and oppressive. Surely, it was going to rain any minute, and he had forgotten his umbrella. Bruce had just escaped the academy, and was walking briskly along a path through the park, heading for his apartment building—hoping to make it before the downpour—when his cell phone rang. He stopped, fished it out of his bag and looked at the display. He didn't recognize the number. Some tocsin of unease told him to answer the phone anyway.

"Hello."

"Angel."

 _"Clark."_

"The one and only."

Bruce let out a breath. "Where are you? Where have you been—"

"Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn around."

Bruce turned slowly, scanning the area. There, on the stone bridge to the south lawn was Clark, with a cell phone to his ear, grinning widely, insouciance personified—standing there as if he hadn't disappeared for days, as if there had never been any _question_ that he would return. Bruce closed his phone and walked the path in Clark's direction, feeling the depression of the past three days release him like a hand opening, feeling a buoyant sense of relief that cushioned his steps and pushed him from a walk to a jog to a run.

Three feet from his target, Bruce dropped his bag, and took aim at Clark's face, but before his fist could make contact, Clark captured it with a hand.

Bruce blinked.

"You're going to hurt yourself," Clark said, hand moving from fist to elbow. He tugged Bruce closer. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"You disappeared." Bruce said, staring into the only blue in gray skies. _"Again."_

"I saw you at the funeral."

"You left before I could talk to you."

Fingers, brushing a cheekbone, tucking hair behind an ear. "I had some things I needed to do, but I'm back now—"

 _Stay._

A hand moved from elbow to bicep. "I needed to see you." Pulled him closer. "I missed you."

 _Everything will fall into place again._

A strong embrace. The enfolding, the sinking in that pulls him outside of himself.

"I missed you."

Then the rain came, and Clark was laughing, face to the sky.

"Race you home!"

"Wait—" Bruce leaned down and grabbed his bag. Clark was already twenty yards away.

"Cheater!"

He took off running after Clark. Running. _He was going to catch him._ He had to.

+

They rode the elevator together to the penthouse level on the forty-fifth floor in screaming silence, clothes wet and hair dripping, leaning against the railing at opposite ends of the car, keeping their distance by unspoken agreement.

 _The tension in the air keen and unequivocal._

Breathing hard, Bruce watched the elevator display, as the light progressed from floor to floor. His palms itched, his stomach was tight. He wanted to touch the person who was staring at him so hungrily, blue eyes tinged red with heat, but a touch would incite the torrent, like the storm breaking. _Cameras._ The elevator wasn't—

The car stopped. The elevator doors opened. They both rushed out, laughing as they elbowed each other to get through the door first. Hands around his waist as he fumbled with keys. Clark behind him, wet and pressed hard to his back. A whisper, light, tickling, close to his ear.

 _"Hurry up."_

Keys dropped. Clark—still laughing—pushing him out of the way, fished his own keys out of a pocket and opened the door. He disappeared inside.

Bruce bent down, picked up what he had dropped, entered the apartment and locked the door. The turning of the lock… _felt like everything he had ever wanted, had never known he wanted._

"Clark?"

Clark was behind him— _How?_ —with a towel that he draped over his shoulders, a hand that took his own and pulled him into the bedroom, into the darkening twilight and to the overstuffed chair. Blunt fingers started unbuttoning the blue of his academy uniform, stripping it from him like the skin of a discarded life. The white t-shirt went up over his head. The towel dried his arms, his chest.

The fingers— _wonderful fingers_ —deftly unlatched the front of his pants, pulling the zipper down over a growing hardness. Hands pushed his pants over his hips, then pushed at his chest so he stumbled backwards, falling into the chair.

Clark—removed the shoes from his feet, the wet socks. Tickling, laughing. His pants, removed entirely and thrown on the floor in a damp heap.

The front of his boxers—tented. Clark kneeling in between his legs, hands roaming over his thighs, grinning.

Not wanting to be the only one so exposed. _Not wanting to be in this alone._

Bruce surged to his feet, pulled Clark to his feet, too. Reached for his belt. With nimble fingers opened it. Pulled the red shirt out, up, over Clark's hair, drops of water flying wildly as Clark shook his head.

The brand—the outline of a… _diamond, a crest? Filled with a figure eight?_ Bruce reached out a hand to touch it, trace it with curious fingers that were captured by Clark's hand and brought to his mouth. Kissed.

The urgency, reasserted itself. Hands on a zipper. Jeans pushed over hips, pooling around ankles on the floor. Shoes awkwardly toed off and jeans kicked away.

The hand took his own, pulled him towards the bed.

They fell into it, so like waterfalls into each other, crashing together.

 _How he missed this! He—couldn't live…without this—_

Clark's hands roamed across skin, endearingly hesitant. Reminding Bruce he is still so _young_ —no matter how aggressive he sometimes seemed.

Against lips devouring his own— _"This isn't such a good idea."_

A groan. _"Nothing this good is ever a good idea."_

 _"Clark—"_

"I missed you," whispered hotly into his neck, tongue, lips, wetly kissing. _"I missed you."_

Head thrown back, allowing more and better access. Bodies hard and pressed together. Everything he had wanted to say, distilled into one faint exhalation. "You—," _breath hitching,_ "left me—he's dead, and you left me."

Hands breached the waistband of his shorts, tentative fingers, light, then bold. A mouth that found his. Kisses perfect…soul-deep.

"I didn't leave you, angel. _My angel._ I wasn't here, but I was with you. _Always with you."_

"Clark, I need…"

The tightening as a hand wrapped itself around his cock, the feel of the breakers as they shattered against the cliff.

 _"I need to know you'll always come back."_

The pause. The retreat. Eyes that found his own and—understood.

"I'll always come back."

Kisses. Whispering. Sounds so like truth. _"I'll always come back. You are my heart."_

Then the flames, fanned by promises, sweet, heady promises, the hot winds of passion that had them shucking shorts, reveling in their nakedness, the press, the way they fit together, exploring with hands, mouths, tongues every plane and every contour of a newly revealed landscape. Opening doors in a house newly built for two. Clark was on top, in control, nibbling at every fleshy place he could find, making his way down. Traveling down, until his lips grazed Bruce's erection, arching him up from the bed with a bolt of electricity to the brain. Clark smiled as Bruce breathed deep and settled. He tried a quick flick of a tongue that had Bruce squirming. And another, and a light nibble. Bruce shuddered.

 _"Clark—"_

A hand buried in the softest hair, tugging, urging Clark to _stop playing,_ and to _do it already._

Wet warmth engulfed the whole of his cock, sucking, slow and easy, then intensely sloppy, exploding bright white lights in front of his eyes, making him close them, making him throw his head back and lift his hips up— _rigidly begging_ —one hand clenched tightly in Clark's hair, the other clenching sheets.

 _Too good to last._

Minutes, maybe— _nothing this good should last only minutes._ An interior explosion he was afraid to enjoy, afraid to let wash over him for more than a few seconds. He needed Clark to be _with him,_ in this same amazing place. More than anything—he had to show him, make sure he understood—

 _How good they were together._

A rearrangement. Now Bruce was on top. Taking his turn, making his way down the perfect slopes of Clark's body, reveling in every shudder, every involuntary groan he could pull from Clark's lips. He taught himself to play Clark's body as he'd taught himself to play the piano, reverently, with dedication and fierce intensity. Mapped his incoherencies, gloried in them.

 _This is mine now. My own and claimed. No other hand to touch—_

When his mouth closed over Clark's erection, when eyes blue as the skies opened wide in startlement and his breath started to stutter and hitch as Bruce sucked, he realized Clark had never done this before. No matter how wild he seemed, how he threw himself at those others, demanding, asking for everything, he had never done even _this_ —so clearly did Clark unravel under his hands, his mouth's adoration. As he sucked Clark to his pinnacle and over, stroked him to a tearful, quivering calmness. Kissed his stomach, the hard nubs of his chest, kissed his face, shared tongues and the taste of each other in a languid embrace, a new light warmed his heart, a new knowledge: _Lex had never touched him._ He was dead now—and he never would.

+

Bruce woke in the middle of the night to the sound of the door to the apartment softly closing. His hand reached out to find the body, the arms that were wrapped around him when he had fallen asleep, warmly sticky but absolutely content, to the sound of Clark's breathing. He found nothing but air.

He was up and out of bed, grabbing a t-shirt and sweatpants that were thrown across a chair from his workout the other day and shrugging into them. He raced to the door, picked up a pair of sneakers on the way, and took the stairs one flight down at a run. He hit the elevator call button, watched the penthouse elevator's display as it made its way down, then rushed into the second elevator bank as the doors opened, slapping at the buttons to make the doors close faster. He jammed feet into sneakers hurriedly, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, waiting for the doors to open.

The lobby was empty when he entered, heading for the front door to the building. He stopped to speak with the doorman, asking him which way Clark had gone, whether he left on his bike or in another new car. _By himself, or had someone picked him up?_ The doorman said Clark had taken off walking, and pointed Bruce in the right direction.

Bruce took off running. He hadn't checked the time but it wasn't that late—eleven, maybe eleven-thirty. They had spent the entire evening in bed, exploring each other, talking, drowsing the hours away only to wake up and start the exploration, the heights and the depths, all over again. They had forgotten food, there had been no talk of going out—there was no place Clark should be _going,_ not now, not after—

He came to a halt as he turned the corner. The street was deserted, and Clark was standing in a phone booth at the end of the block. The streetlight overhead cast an ethereal fluorescence over him that tinged everything a neon blue and made the outline of the brand on his chest under the white of his t-shirt seem to glow red. Phone to ear, Clark was clearly in distress, head bowed, forehead to glass. Bruce started walking slowly down the block, towards the phone booth, until he could hear what Clark was saying.

"What happened to not dwelling on the past, making a fresh new start?! Admit it, you're happy I'm gone!"

Silence, screaming.

 _"I'm not your son, and you're not my parents! You never were and you never will be!"_

Sobs—and screaming, and tearing at his chest like he was in excruciating pain, like something, some inner flagellation was killing him, ripping his heart to pieces. Appalled, Bruce stepped forward, hand out. Through the glass he watched as Clark raised a hand, stared at the ring— _the class ring?_ —the only piece of jewelry he always seemed to be wearing, Bruce realized. Watched as he took it off, stared at it as if it were the entire representation of his past life in Smallville, watched as he stuffed it into his pocket.

Through the glass, Bruce could see the damage done to Clark's face by the tears that were still falling, the deathly pale skin, the pain in eyes wet and dark as Clark looked over and realized Bruce was there, watching him. How Clark mouthed his name, _Bruce,_ and then was out of the phone booth and in his arms, sobbing—uncontrollably sobbing.

 _"Oh God, I'm sorry. Bruce, I'm so sorry."_

The arms that held him so tightly, like the last lifeline in the middle of a stormy sea, the voice, broken, desperate, that kept saying his name—

 _"Bruce—"_

…into his neck where Clark's face was buried. Bruce held him, as the hurricane passed through, until Clark stilled and pulled away, and stared at him with wide eyes that took him all in, begged him silently in dark shades of blue— _for what?_

Help? Forgiveness?

A hand reached out and touched a cheek, that had, hours earlier brought Bruce such pleasure. Lips touched his own softly, asked— _didn't demand_ —his lips open in response. A kiss that went on, and on, and through the constellation of stars overhead, and settled in the soil of his soul, like pieces of the sky, falling. Until Clark groaned, and turned away, and put his hands to his head like the whole of the night had come crashing down around him.

Bruce watched as Clark pulled his school ring from the pocket of his jeans. Bruce watched as he put the ring back on his finger.


	16. Night-Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  

**XV. Night-Eyes**

_Invade me with your hot mouth; interrogate me_   
_with your night-eyes, if you want—only let me_   
_steer like a ship through your name; let me rest there._

+

"I don't know what you want me to say, angel." Clark shifted in the large bed so Bruce was more snugly fitted to his front side, so their bodies met and melded from shoulders to groin and their thighs were interwoven. One hand was buried in Bruce's hair, the other rested at the small of his back. Their heads were angled to allow intermittent kisses, short or long, deep or fleeting, whenever the mood struck. It was…as close to heaven as the time spent without the ring on his finger was to hell, Clark decided.

"Can't tell you all my secrets." He stole a kiss.

Bruce turned and sighed into his neck, close to an ear. "Why not? Don't you trust me?"

Good question? Did he trust Bruce Wayne? Had he ever really trusted anyone in his life?

"I don't trust people. It's easier that way."

Clark could tell the response was not the one the angel wanted to hear, because he stiffened. _So prickly—it was like trying to pet a porcupine._ He sighed. "I like being here with you. You were asleep and you looked—" Clark tightened his arms. "I decided to call them—I don't know why. They're…selling the farm, moving to town." Clark shrugged. "I guess I wanted them to say they'll stop looking for me, that I can live my life without looking over my shoulder." He kissed Bruce then. _All he needed was the ring and this feeling._ He didn't need the Kents at all. "I have everything I need," he whispered, soft against lips.

"I talked to them."

Clark froze.

"At the funeral."

Clark detangled himself from Bruce and moved to the opposite side of the bed, sitting up on the edge. "Why?" he asked, over a shoulder.

"Because they're your parents. Because they're looking for you, and I've been with you. You've been staying here."

It was late, and it had been a long day. Clark rubbed at his face. "What did they say?"

"Nothing. That they missed you. They want you to come home."

"You told them you'd seen me?"

"I did—"

Clark groaned.

"But I didn't tell them that I'd seen you recently. I simply said that I had run into you at a club. I gave them no information."

Clark turned, stared at Bruce through the shadows that obscured half his face where he reclined against the pillows. "And you want me to trust you—"

"I didn't tell them anything!" Bruce said, sitting up and getting out of bed. He found a t-shirt and pulled it on over his head. "I just wanted to see—"

"If I was wrong or right."

Bruce shook his head, smiling sadly. "If there was a way I could help you."

"And you found out they're all goodness and apple pie." Clark got to his feet, glared. "Now what? You going to invite them to dinner? Surprise me into going home? Call the cops? Do I have to worry every time I walk out the door that either the Kents or the police are going to be waiting on the other side?"

They had gotten closer to one another during his outburst. They were now both glaring, only an arm's length apart.

"You know I wouldn't do that."

Clark took Bruce by the shoulders, shook him. "Do I? _Do I?"_

Bruce's gaze remained flat, implacable. "Yes."

There was moonlight. There was silence. There was the loud beating of a heart timed to his own, the imperceptible shudder that ran through him when Bruce placed hands on his hips, pulled him the remaining distance that separated their bodies. They collided. Clark leaned in and kissed him, bruising, hard. Tightened his hands on Bruce's shoulders, then loosened his grip so he could wrap him in his arms. No, he didn't know whether Bruce was trustworthy, whether or not he would betray him. He didn't _know_ it—but he could _feel_ it. Bruce felt like the only thing that mattered. He felt like the only thing he could trust in a wild and chaotic world.

+

Now that Bruce had noticed its import, it remained on his mind like a cipher.

The red ring—he had never seen Clark take it off. As Bruce studied Clark's sleeping profile and the hand that was clutching the pillow under his head, he replayed the entire scene of the night before in his mind—Clark in the phone booth, yelling into the phone. The way he had seemed to be in such pain, and how he took the ring off. He remembered the look in Clark's eyes when Clark ran to him—so different from his usual unconcerned stare. Those eyes were blighted by guilt, shame—remorse. Certainly, a person couldn't just flip a switch and shunt such strong feelings to the side…could they? Clark apparently had such a switch because when they returned to the apartment, and went back to bed, it was as if the episode had never happened. Clark seemed at peace, and but for their dust up about approaching the Kents at the funeral, Clark had spent the rest of the night quietly in his arms.

If only he could find such oblivion, such peace.

Going to class was out of the question. He was tired, he had hardly slept at all, and he had yet to assuage his need to have Clark near him after so many days apart. Their physical relationship had spiraled outward deliciously. The thought of spending the whole day _without Clark_ was simply unbearable.

The ring—it must somehow represent to Clark everything he had left behind. But was that a good thing or a bad thing? Bruce reached out, laid a hand lightly over Clark's, coaxed it from the pillow and into his lap. There, he studied the ring as it sparkled in the morning light streaming through the windows. He rang a finger over the stone, gripped the edges, and started to work it carefully off of Clark's finger.

"What are you doing, angel?"

Bruce stopped his fiddling to find Clark awake and watching him with eyes like morning dew.

"I wanted a better look at your ring."

Clark disengaged his hand, closed it into a fist.

"Don't."

"This is your class ring?"

"Yes."

"Why are you still wearing it if you don't want to go home?"

"It helps me keep things in perspective, reminds me of how I used to be, shoveling cow shit and baling hay."

"Take it off," Bruce said. "Let me see it."

Clark chuckled, low and sharp. He held up his hand. "See."

Bruce captured the hand in his own. "Come on. Take it off."

"I don't take it off." Clark pulled his hand away.

"Fine," Bruce said, letting go, still curious but not willing to fight about it.

But now Clark was awake, and he had other things besides talking on his mind. In a deft movement of limbs, Clark was on top of him, grinding an impressive morning erection against his own. Bruce closed his eyes, dropped his head back onto the pillow. He enjoyed the escalating rhythm, the sensations galloping over and through him, making him groan low and bite his lip.

"Open your eyes," Clark said, rocking his hips back and forth so the pressure and the friction continued. Bruce allowed his thighs to part and his eyes to flutter open. "That's it, angel. I want your pretty eyes watching me as I do this."

Clark started at the line of his jaw, kissed his way down like he was traveling a garden path, slowly, reverently. Breathing became labored as Clark licked each nipple, spent time playing in his belly button. He nuzzled his erection, kissing and licking and then ignoring the insistent length in favor of lavishing attention on his balls. A hand wrapped itself around his cock, pumping from head to stem. Clark's mouth engulfed one sack while his nose nuzzled the other. Bruce felt like his brain was about to explode, his body shatter into pieces, as the young man from Smallville, who less than a week ago he would have sworn had little experience with the truly carnal, flicked a tongue out and licked him lightly from stem to puckered opening, and again. And again, wetly. Bruce yelled and came—hard.

Rolling away from hands, Bruce tried to catch his breath, tried to slow his pounding heart, waiting for his stomach to settle and the whiteness in front of his eye to fade.

Clark settled into a seated position, his own erection jutting out but not bothering him, apparently. Bruce wanted to take care of that for him— _God, how he wanted to!_ —but it was simply impossible to move at the moment..

"Are you okay, angel?"

From some inner reserve of strength, Bruce turned his head. "Where did you learn to do that?" he asked, suspicion already taking hold of his thoughts, turning them to every minute Clark had spent alone, without him, since they'd first gone this far.

Clark grinned smugly. "Did some research on the computer."

"You did some research on the computer…"

"Yeah. I pick up things fast. I know everything now. Do you want to have sex?"

Bruce blinked, felt his stomach drop to his feet. "I…I…do _you_ want to have sex?"

Clark shrugged. "I don't know. I guess so. It would be fun."

Too much—why was Clark so good at shredding every last bit of his resolve, his control? "Maybe—maybe we should wait awhile."

Clark stretched out, positioned himself and Bruce so he could rest comfortably across his chest. He captured a hand and placed it over his cock, encouraging. "Do you want me to take you on a date first? I can do that."

"A…date?"

"Sure. I could take you to dinner, or something. Then you'd have no reason to object to the sex part."

"I'm not objecting, it's just—"

"Okay, two dates, but don't push it."

Bruce tightened his fingers around Clark's length, sped up his hand motion just enough to make Clark squirm. "Clark, it's not the dates—"

Clark frowned. "You don't want to have sex."

"No—God, no. I mean, yes, of course I do but we haven't even figured out—"

"What's to figure out?"

"What we're doing. We haven't figured out what we're doing—what _you're_ doing. I don't want anyone to say I've taken advantage of you, that I've been a bad influence—"

"You take advantage of me? Angel, that would be a hard sell."

"But—"

"Okay, fine. No sex. But I bet you break before I do. I know all kinds of things now." Clark leered. "You let me know when you've changed your mind."

Clark pulled and rolled, so he was on bottom and Bruce was on top, then he pushed until Bruce sank down and his mouth could take over where his hands had left off.

+

Clark was determined to take Bruce on his two dates, so the stubborn angel wouldn't have any artificial barriers in place between them regarding sex. He had made a thorough study of the act itself, and his powers, and had come to the conclusion that as long as he was _careful,_ he shouldn't have any problems. That simply left what was _wanted._ He wanted Bruce more than—anything _else._ At least, anything else that he wanted right now, and that was all that mattered.

For the first date he had even made an attempt to select a restaurant he thought was more suitable to Bruce's upper class tastes, one that _Harvey_ would have taken him to. The best of the best—even though he would have preferred a burger at the _Hard Rock Café_ …or something. The suit he bought for the occasion was the most expensive he could find, compliments of two bank machines on Second Avenue, but he figured he better not tell Bruce about that. Bruce only raised an eyebrow at the extravagance as they climbed into the back of the stretch limousine Clark had arranged, and he was just thankful to be spared an interrogation.

Sitting in the back of the limo with Bruce at his side and champagne in his hand, Clark was thankful—thankful to Lex, who had shown him the accouterments of a proper date. Though at that time it had all been arranged to impress Lana, a…girl who was so far in his past—he could barely remember the color of her eyes. They certainly weren't precious and blue like diamonds—

"Can I know where we're going?"

"It's a surprise. By the way, you look…gorgeous. You're the best looking guy I've ever dated."

"You've dated guys? Like who?"

"Well, no one, but I'm sure you'll be the most handsome of them all, when I have someone to compare you to."

Bruce snatched the champagne flute from his hand, deposited it and knocked him back onto the seat, pinning him there. "Try not to anticipate these other _guys_ while we're out on our first date," he growled. Clark couldn't help but grin. There was something about Bruce that—smothered every other impulse but to… _want him_. It was the most amazing thing in the world.

"I'll try."

Bruce leaned in and kissed him.

There wasn't time for much of anything before the limo pulled up in front of the _Daily Planet,_ headquarters of the acclaimed newspaper but also one of the tallest buildings in Metropolis. It had the most exclusive restaurant in the city on the top floor. Up they went in the elevator, Bruce shaking his head in wry amusement the entire way. They were seated, and things became a little dicey, since the menu was in French and there was entirely too much silverware on the table for a normal person. Thankfully, Bruce handled the situation with aplomb, explaining the menu, speaking French to the waiter and pointing, and even teaching him the right fork to use and when. It was…fun…, and Clark identified a liking for something that, simply put, went right to his cock.

Under the table, Clark grabbed Bruce's hand and placed it on his hardening erection. "You speaking French—very hot."

They were sitting next to, rather than across, the table from each other, so they could better collaborate on menu and flatware. Bruce leaned over, said something in Clark's ear that he didn't understand but sent the blood rushing downwards. He grinned, squeezed, and backed off primly, glancing around and blushing. Clark wanted to tackle him—right then and there—but he didn't want to embarrass Bruce and spoil the date. Everything was going so well—

Until Bruce's cell phone rang. He pulled it from the inside jacket pocket and glanced at the display. Frowning, he said, "I have to take this—" and flipped the phone open.

It was someone named Alfred. Clark watched, fascinated, as Bruce's whole demeanor changed. He couldn't help but expand his hearing to listen in on the entire conversation. He determined that Alfred was Bruce's guardian, and he was calling to ask Bruce to attend a charity function in Metropolis on behalf of the Wayne Foundation. Alfred stressed how important it was that a representative of the family be in attendance at this particular event, seeing as Bruce was currently in Metropolis anyway, and how bad it would look if Bruce declined. Alfred signed off by saying something else that Clark found interesting: he said Bruce should make sure to bring a date this time, and that he would make arrangements for his guest—he wouldn't take no for an answer.

Bruce closed his phone carefully, smiled. "That was Alfred," he said. "The president of the Wayne Foundation was in a car accident today. Nothing serious but he was supposed to speak at a charity function for the Children's Aid Society here in Metropolis tomorrow. Alfred asked me to attend instead." Bruce sipped from his water goblet while Clark watched him curiously. There was no mention made about bringing a guest, no invitation extended. Clark wondered what Bruce was waiting for, but then forgot about it in their shared people-watching, their laughter, the food that was delicious and plentiful, the wild escapade that had them sneaking past security to the stairs leading up to the roof. In the shadow of the giant _Daily Planet_ globe the city was so famous for, and with the moon and stars watching, they treated each other to the most staggering blowjobs—trying to see which one could make the other fall to his knees.

And the ride home—yelling out of the moon roof, making out in the back seat, cruising Metropolis like they owned the city. Clark had no time to think about the phone call from Alfred, not when they ended their date in bed, and he had Bruce quivering under his hands. He could tell Bruce was about to give in entirely, to everything, no need for the pretense of a second date. But Clark let him slide. There was no rush. The first date had been fun, and the second would be, too. They would go to this charity event, and he'd make sure Bruce had the time of his life. Then—

He woke late the next morning, to the sound of Bruce whispering in the bathroom. He was on his cell phone, and Clark supposed he was being very quiet. But Clark had super hearing, and Bruce couldn't be quiet enough—not while making a date with some girl named Karen to accompany him to the charity event.

When Bruce entered the bedroom, Clark was laid back on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head. He wondered if Bruce would tell him about the girl, what he would say. But as the day wore on, and they lounged around the apartment, ran over to the courts and then to the dojo, he realized Bruce had no intention of saying anything at all. He lied very sweetly, saying he was sorry for having to bail, but he'd only be gone for a few hours. Family obligation and whatnot, _and Clark should wait for him._

Clark should wait for him.

Clark sat on the sofa, flipping channels on the television as Bruce got dressed. Looking dapper, like a million bucks and then some, Bruce made one last circuit around the apartment before kneeling in front of Clark and kissing him, deep and sweet.

"I'll be back soon," he said. "Don't overdose on popcorn."

Clark waited until he was about to turn the knob on the door.

"Lex would have taken me with him."

"What?"

"You always want to know what I see in Lex, why he's my best friend, why I—" Clark stopped. _"Why I'll never give up on him._ He never cares what anyone _thinks_. He never treats me like I'm _stupid_ or not good enough. He always puts our friendship _first."_

Clark started flipping the channels again. "Have fun on your date, angel."

"Clark—"

"You better go. You wouldn't want to keep her waiting."

Bruce was silent. Clark ignored him until he gave up and left. Then he got dressed to go out.

+

The charity dinner was awful, excruciating—like he was in a ring of hell reserved for himself alone. Karen was—tapioca pudding, and it wasn't even her fault. The five hours spent on travel, inane chatter, speeches, hand shaking, smiling, were the longest hours of his entire life. And the only prospect for relief was the many times he called Clark's cell phone—but Clark never answered. Bruce just knew he would be gone when he got back to the apartment.

And the knowledge was killing him.

Halfway through the event, before he had even made the presentation of the check and his standard speech, the spiraling sense of panic became overwhelming, the certainty that Clark would be gone, and he wouldn't be able to find him until Clark decided to return— _if he decided to return._

Bruce excused himself to the men's room, called the Wayne Enterprises IT department, the overnight division that monitored the internal network and the satellite uptime, and spoke to the person in charge of the shift. He gave him Clark's cell phone number, and instructions to do whatever it took to have the GPS activated and Clark's location updated live to his phone's display. He had an excellent cover story prepared: missing teen, distraught parents, trying to do more than the police were prepared to do to avert tragedy. The man bought it hook, line and sinker, but Bruce knew the story would eventually get back to Alfred. But he didn't care. _He just didn't care._

He waited on pins and needles for the ninety minutes it took for his phone to beep and the coordinates to show up on the map. Through the rest of the evening, the phone in his hand was his lifeline, his only consolation.

Hours later, after he had completed his obligations, he instructed the driver to drop him at the right place, a seedy pool hall on the east side of town. He found Clark inside, playing pool with a group of rowdies that included three guys and four girls. They were drinking, smoking and feeling each other up, in various combinations. Clark was leaning over the table. Bruce watched for a while, watched him bank every shot.

"Clark—"

Clark glanced in his direction dismissively. "How did you find me, angel?"

"You always seem to be able to find me," Bruce offered, trying to gauge Clark's mood from his eyes. They stared at him coldly. "Thought I'd return the favor."

Clark started walking away, towards the bar. "I don't have time for you now, angel. You might as well go home."

Bruce grabbed his shoulder. "You're not being fair—"

Clark spun on him. "Say you're sorry."

"You know I am. I'm sorry." Bruce lowered his voice, stepped closer. "I didn't invite you simply because it would have made things more complicated. They take so many pictures at charity events that run in all the major newspapers, and I'm a magnet for photographers. Your picture would have been in the paper. Your parents could have seen it, the police, Morgan Edge—I was just trying to protect you." This time, he allowed his hand to fall and touch Clark's. "I wasn't trying to hurt you. It's not that I'm embarrassed to be seen with you. It's not that I wanted to spend the evening with her—God, no."

Inscrutable, Clark's gaze was like a puzzle. "You tried to manipulate me," he said, finally. A shoulder went up, down. "I understand what you're saying. I'm not stupid. But you could have told me the truth."

He finished his trip to the bar, ordered a beer. Headed back towards the group at the pool table. "Stay or go, angel. Your choice."

Just like that, they were back to square one.

+

_A week later…in the evening…at the dojo…_

Bruce took a vicious swipe at Clark's head with the staff. He knew Clark would block but, _damn,_ it felt good to think, even for a moment, that he had the ability to crack open that hardheaded skull.

How long would he be made to suffer for one mistake? He'd only wanted—he thought he was doing the best thing for both of them. He wasn't trying to _hurt_ Clark. He was trying to _protect_ him. But all Clark seemed able to focus on was the fact that he'd chosen to manipulate the situation instead of simply telling the truth—and he'd never given Clark the opportunity to agree with his reasoning. In Clark's mind, that meant he thought _less_ of him, and the manipulation was in some way what everyone had tried to do to him his entire life. Bruce thought it was extremely unfair that he should have to suffer for the sins of all those past transgressors. After a week of the cold shoulder, of being dismissed and taunted, of partying every night trying to keep an eye on Clark, who flaunted a revived wildness and promiscuity in his face at every opportunity—a week of Clark disappearing, sleeping on the sofa, or in his own room, and only occasionally letting anything beyond a kiss progress between them—all Bruce wanted was a return to the twenty-four hours they had spent together in peace, when he had the Clark of his dreams in his arms, willing to do anything to make him happy.

Sometimes he missed that Clark so much it burned.

Another swipe—this time at his legs—and then a move that dropped Clark to the floor hard. Bruce landed on him with a knee to the chest.

His knee felt like it had impacted rock.

He yelped, feeling the reverberation through his entire leg, and fell over onto his side, moaning and holding his leg.

He could hear Clark smirking, and it was just like every other galling thing that had been heaped on him this week—like the random comparisons to Lex Luthor that Clark seemed always ready to make, now. To the point Bruce almost felt he should apologize for not being more like the bald bastard.

"Need help, angel?" Clark was all innocence.

Bruce scowled. "No. I can do without your help."

Just then, the bells on the front door rang, and Harvey and three of their frat brothers walked in. The place became a confusion of introductions. Bruce trying to stand, nursing his knee, and Harvey's boisterous personality that wasn't insulting to Clark exactly, but wasn't quite friendly either. Clark was very quiet, simply watching, looking bored, as the reason for Harvey's visit became clear.

"Thought we'd try to rustle you up, old chum. You've been M.I.A. lately." Harvey smiled at Clark, teeth sharp and white. "I know you've been busy, but do you think we could steal you away for the evening? Surely, you don't spend every night—"

Bruce grabbed Harvey's arm, spun him around. "Harvey."

"—Studying."

Harvey patted his shoulder. "What do you say?"

Bruce glanced in Clark's direction. Clark was putting their equipment away, tidying up. Over by the bench he pulled off his gi and put it in his gym bag, put his t-shirt on over his head. Then he leaned against the wall, watching.

Bruce made a decision. He was tired of being Clark's whipping boy. Maybe, Clark needed to see what it felt like to be the one on the other end. Besides, it would be good to hang out with Harvey. He hadn't seen his friend since the funeral. He could use some of his uncomplicated humor right about now.

"Sounds good," Bruce said, nodding. "You'll be okay tonight, Clark?"

"Sure," Clark drawled, hefting his gym bag. He walked to the door of the dojo, found his shoes, stepped into them. "I'll see you later, Bruce." He smiled, punched Harvey in the shoulder, apparently hard enough to make the smaller man wince. "Later, Harv."

Through the glass, Bruce watched him go, watched as he never looked back.

He was already regretting his decision.

+

Clark pulled up to his apartment complex on his motorcycle. He hadn't been using his old place since he started staying with Bruce, but he'd kept an eye on it, from time to time, and, perhaps, it wouldn't be too long until he was back permanently. It was still safer for the angel if he was close by, but as soon as he finished this last job for Edge, everything would return to normal. There would be no need for him to stay at the penthouse. This thing with Bruce wasn't working out anyway.

He killed the engine, stopped, listened. Heard the sound of Bruce laughing in the penthouse with Harvey and the rest of those clowns. _Laughing._ When was the last time he'd heard the angel laugh?

Upstairs to shower and change, then back out again, much earlier than usual, but it was impossible for him to just sit around and _listen_. It…bothered him, created a tightness in his chest that… _hurt._ He needed to find something to _do._

He was pulling away from the curb when he saw Lana Lang in his side view mirror.

She looked—exactly the same as the last time he saw her in Smallville, and when he had glimpsed her at Lex's funeral. Not only did she look like the girl he had pined after for years, with his schoolboy crush, but she was also convenient, a worthwhile distraction—since he was no longer the guy that was too afraid to take her up on that offer in her eyes.

Though, he was annoyed she had been able to find him— _Chloe, obviously_ —but he was pumped that she seemed willing to accept him for what he was now. He told her if she wanted him, she'd have to be able to hang. As she climbed on the back of his bike, wrapped her hands around him, he had that feeling again, of a wild world laid out, his for the taking.

That it was the wrong person sharing it with him was only a small thing, easily ignored as they raced the streets of Metropolis, got something casual to eat, and appeared at the club around the usual time.

He could tell Lana was nervous—the people, the lights, the loud music. The regulars who knew him stared at Lana curiously, adding to her disquiet. It had been a while since he'd shown up with anyone other than Bruce.

_Bruce._

"Why are they calling you Kal?" she asked, yelling over the music.

"That's my secret identity." He laughed, and if she was a poor substitute for the angel, she was still attractive enough in her own right. It wasn't so bad having her around.

Until she started complaining.

"Clark, what are we doing here?"

"Trying to have fun."

"This is not fun—"

He pulled her forward, kissed her, just to shut her up, to see if she was worth any more of his time, because her voice was starting to grate on his nerves. She tasted like…his old life, like sweetness and light, cotton candy. Pink teddy bears. A loft in a barn and parents that say they love you. _She was nothing like Bruce._

He knew it suddenly, the certainty: _no one was like Bruce._

He felt—nothing for Lana Lang. In fact, she made him sick. He let her go. She looked dazed and confused.

"Go home," he said to her. "I don't want you here."

It took some persuasion, but the girl finally stormed out of the club, back to her life in Smallville, he supposed, but didn't care. Clark had already forgotten about her.

+

Bruce watched as Clark kissed the petite girl with the long brown hair. _Lana Lang,_ the file in his head supplied. The girl who had posted the flyers around town, trying to find Clark. Bruce had looked into her situation, the same as he had the Kents, because she was one of the few people who was so aggressive about finding Clark.

Apparently…she found him. Apparently, Clark wasn't as adverse as he claimed to being found.

He stalked to the back door, exited the way he'd entered. He should have stayed out with Harvey and the guys, should have never come here, like this, but he had been miserable, in the middle of a group of guys who didn't understand anything—

He needed Clark the way he needed air, the way he needed the nightmares to leave him alone. He couldn't simply _be_ without him.

Bruce hailed a taxi. He felt…sick. He couldn't pinpoint why it bothered him so much to see Clark all over _that_ girl. There was always someone hanging on Clark, someone he used as entertainment, physically playing, discarding them all eventually, in favor of Bruce. Except Lana represented—inevitability. The inevitable return of Clark to his old life.

He gave the driver his address, sat back in the seat and closed his eyes, telling himself Clark was only playing this time, too. Even though they had parted in anger, Clark would come home. _He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye._

The apartment was a dark and lonely place— _like his dreams._ Bruce didn't bother with the lights. It was hot, summer muggy, and he simply stripped down to his boxers and fell on the sofa, intending to—sleep? Wait? Something, until Clark came home. After too long a time trying to stop _thinking,_ he got up, went to the cabinet in the kitchen where Harvey kept the liquor for when he invited guys over to watch the game or a fight, and took down the tequila. Into the fridge for a beer, a shot glass, and back to the sofa, where he proceeded to down tequila and beer—four shots in rapid succession. Then he laid back down, fuzzy and content, his brain in neutral.

Waiting.

He must have dozed off, because the pounding on the door startled him awake. His first thought was that Clark had forgotten his keys. He stumbled to his feet, head pounding and perspective skewed, and opened the door.

It was Harvey.

"Bruce," he slurred, falling into his arms. Bruce staggered, kicked the door shut, and dragged a moaning Harvey to the sofa where he deposited him in disgust. He wasn't in the mood—

"You left us," Harvey said, reaching out and grabbing Bruce by the nape of the neck. "For him—"

Harvey spotted the tequila. He reached for it, knocking the bottle over. Liquid spilled. Bruce used his hands to try to prevent the mess from seeping onto the carpet, while trying to keep Harvey from falling on the floor. It was…almost impossible, and Bruce wasn't exactly in the best condition himself. He ended up on his ass, on the floor, tequila—everywhere. Harvey draped over his midsection.

The position was…awkward. Harvey was looking at him, eyes brown and mournful, long waves of hair falling into his face. It was easy to see why he was so popular with the ladies, with everyone, really. There was an aching symmetry about Harvey. He had a face that wasn't just handsome, it was classically handsome. It wasn't that Bruce hadn't noticed this before now, it was just…he had gotten used to it. Harvey was just…his gorgeous best friend whom he took for granted, to whom everything was a joke and who protected him like a mother hen.

But it was a little hard to ignore Harvey when he was licking his stomach, Bruce decided with a groan. He pulled at Harvey's shirt, tried to get him to lay off, and somehow, Harvey ended up flush on top of him, and they were kissing. They were kissing, and for the life of him, Bruce couldn't figure out how it happened. But he didn't want it to stop.

That ache—it was held at bay, for the moment, as his head swam and his senses spiked at the expert feel of lips against his own. It was enough, for now, to have this, because he knew—Clark wasn't coming back. He wasn't coming—

Something knocked the coffee table over with a cacophonous noise, sent Harvey flying across the room to fall in an unconscious heap by the balcony doors. Then the wind—and he was hoisted up in arms and shaken like a doll. His immediate reaction was to fight back.

He knew it was Clark—but it wasn't Clark. He was Bruce—but he wasn't Bruce. They were like two wild animals, Bruce fighting to get away, Clark fighting to keep him contained. He was being dragged to the bedroom, and Clark was saying something, raggedly, but Bruce couldn't hear the words. His whole world was shades of midnight blue, and the blue black of pain felt with every blow he tried to land, the wild kicks, using every move he had ever learned to make Clark let him go.

He landed hard on the bed, Clark over him like a storm, and it was then he realized Clark was sobbing, terrible gut-wrenching sobs that were the syllables of his name, but so much more, because their faces were too close and the tears were falling like rain into his eyes.

_"Stop—stop fighting me. I love you. I don't want to hurt you."_

As Bruce heard the words a shower of brilliant lust went through him, and he felt again the draining weakness. Of wanting something so badly it could kill, either himself or some other. Two disparate pangs resounded, one in his heart, one in his soul. It started him struggling again, but not to escape, to cast himself against the cliffs, to destroy himself if only the stars of this pain could go on forever. Clark wanted him. He was beside himself with lust— _for him._

Bruce listened as he struggled, as Clark fought to pin him to the bed, as he ripped the fabric of his shorts, and tried to keep him still while he worked himself out of his own pants. The sound was like music, the sweetest music—

_"Stop—stop fighting me…just…stop…I love you, angel…mine…no one else…I love you. Don't make me hurt you…I would never hurt you. Everything is you. Everything…I love you….I love you…I love you…"_

Afterwards, he could remember it only in knife-like flashes of flesh on flesh, torso to torso, torso to back. A scarlet animal fury of mouths, tongues, teeth, of fighting the inevitable with every bit of himself while, at the same time, surrendering, from deep within. Challenging Clark to take him, claim him, _if he could._ Bruce cried out his pain when Clark entered him with so little preparation— _gloried in it_ —with nothing but fingers and spit to ease the way. Blood was between them now. _Blood._ On the sheets, on hands, staining flesh red. But it was perfect. It was perfectly right. _Nothing else could come between._ Shivers of fire ran upwards through his body, from the point inside where their bodies were connected. Blood and semen lit his nerves, sent him spiraling into darkness where Clark was waiting. His light.

Bruce regained consciousness slowly, pain lancing through him like a sword. He tried moving. A wrist was swollen. He tried to maneuver himself off the bed, the mess of blood and sheets. It was then he saw Clark, in the armchair, watching him. Bruce struggled to sit up, tried to keep himself balanced on the edge of the bed and his upper thighs rather than his backside, which felt like it was on fire. With a deep breath, he prepared to push himself to his feet.

Until—with a sob, Clark was there, a supplicant at his feet, faced pressed into his lap, begging his forgiveness. Bruce placed a hand in his hair, stroked him until he was nothing but a quivering body that only responded to the inclination of his touch. He had paid a price for this, of course, but he was well satisfied.

After all, when you sow the wind, you have to be prepared to reap the whirlwind.

+

Harvey squinted open his eyes. Realized, with stuttering, painful curiosity, that he was on the floor of Bruce's apartment—an apartment that looked…like it had been ravaged by a tornado.

He remembered—nothing, or almost nothing. He remembered Bruce in those boxer shorts, and the tequila, and—

_Shit, what had he done?_

He groaned as he got to his feet. Called out for his friend as he tried to straighten his clothing. Now that he was standing, he could see that the apartment was so wrecked, it actually worried him. Again, he called out:

"Bruce—"

The door to the bedroom opened. Bruce came out, walking stiffly. It was clear…something unpleasant had happened last night.

"What happened?" he asked carefully. "Did I do—?"

"What? Of course not, Harvey. You need to stop drinking. Your memory is shit."

Harvey waved a hand, encompassing the apartment, Bruce's somewhat battered state. "Then what—?"

Bruce hesitated. Harvey stared at him with wide eyes. "Clark and I got into a fight." Bruce shrugged. "It was over you, actually. It got a little…tense."

"Tense? You call this tense? What has that kid done to you?"

"His name is Clark, Harvey. _Clark._ Get used to it. He's going to be here—"

Harvey heard the rest of the sentence loud and clear: _Forever._

"You're going to have to stop with the drunken binges and showing up here in the middle of the night, Harv. I'm sure you have a girlfriend somewhere who wouldn't mind your company on your wilder nights." Bruce grinned but he was already looking at the bedroom door, as if he'd heard something only audible to his ears. "Can you let yourself out? I'll catch you later."

Harvey nodded, gathered his things and headed home. Bruce had made his choice. _What was there left to say?_


	17. So Close

**XVI. So Close**

 _…where **I** does not exist, nor **you,**  
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand  
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep._

+

A long time past, a distant life in a small yellow house on a farm in Smallville, his world had been drenched in sunlight. His concerns had been tinged the color of familial love and ringed by the support of his _mother_ and his _father_ and the certainty that no problem was too big for the three of them to overcome.

"Clark—" A voice muffled against his chest.

A stroking of skin, fingertips, light, soothing.

 _"Shh. Go back to sleep."_

Then the knowledge came, the stress of trying to figure out what to do, who to help, who to hurt. The complications, the lies. The magnitude of the demands on his life. The winnowing, the slow but inexorable walk into the darkness of his own isolation, further and further into solitude.

"I'm awake." A shifting. "God, I'm thirsty." Eyes, in a face too pale, luminous. _Bruised._ "Can you…?"

An arm, tightened, reluctant. Admitting, _"I don't want to let you go."_

"Just for a minute," a yawn, "just to get some water…"

The confusion when the sunlight of his life seemed to desert him, when everything he loved was taken away, and a voice out of a spaceship had named him _Survivor_ and _Last Son_ and demanded he surrender his life, his freedom. No pride in the redefinition. No solace. _Alien._ Exile.

The denial. The choice. The tragedy. The red ring on his finger that had given him another life, unencumbered and wild, insistent.

"Okay," a kiss to the temple, lips wanting to linger, "but you're going to have to—" A shift and a roll that stole the warmth of a body and the modesty of the sheet all at once.

Now Bruce Wayne was his life, his center, his own.

 _He trusted me not to hurt him…and I…hurt him anyway. What's wrong with me?_

Clark took a glass out of the dishwasher, filled it with ice. Grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator.

The ring. He understood, intellectually and viscerally, exactly why he needed to wear it, what it provided that nothing else could provide: distance, insulation, perspective. He chose to put it on. He could choose to take it off. It was his life, and _this_ was how he wanted to live it, without remorse, recriminations, regrets.

Only now he was _sorry;_ he _regretted._ He needed someone's _forgiveness._ Even the ring wasn't powerful enough to insulate him from what he had done last night. The blood, the pain. The hurt inflicted upon the one person who had only ever shown him— _Kal_ —love, concern. Despite the fact he had tried again and again to drive him away. _What have I done?_

He had promised to protect Bruce—but who was going to protect Bruce from him? _Could he ever guarantee Bruce's safety while he wore the ring?_

One thing was certain: he didn't want to have to pay for his actions last night. He had transgressed, but he wanted— _needed_ —absolution. By rights, Bruce could walk away now, _just like all the others he had wronged over the past few months._ He had laughed as those others left, mocked them for being unnecessary, stupid and weak. He would—he didn't know what he'd do if Bruce walked away now. _No,_ he couldn't pay for this— _not if it meant losing Bruce_ —but he would…make amends.

He could… _change_ …just a little. Be… _better_ —just for Bruce. Just enough to ensure—

It was late morning, and revealing sunlight was everywhere. Clark's gaze swept the apartment, causing an uncomfortable feeling to settle in the pit of his stomach as he cataloged the mess, the broken items, the overturned table. Evidence of a red fury. He hardly remembered—

At least that stupid, drunken clown, _Harvey,_ was gone. This was all his fault, anyway. _If he hadn't—_

Maybe he should order food. Bruce would be hungry. Then again, he could try to make him something to eat.

Clark went back to the refrigerator, studied its contents, then closed the door, disappointed. There wasn't a lot he could cook, and nothing that was currently in stock. _Anything cooked for Bruce would have to be perfect._ He decided he'd better order something, and he might as well ask Bruce what he wanted.

But before he went back into the bedroom, he used his super speed to clean up the apartment.

Bruce had fallen asleep again. Clark walked into the bedroom to find him stretched out in the middle of the bed, on his stomach, sheet around his lower thighs. The sight of him, naked, beautiful, was enough to make Clark's cock stiffen, put ideas in his head that he immediately tamped down on. He wouldn't impose himself on Bruce. He would let him sleep, and when he was ready, he would say so. There was no rush. They had…

 _They had forever._

He put the glass of water on the nightstand and prepared to go into the other room to order food and watch television, to wait until Bruce wanted him close.

 _"Clark…"_

Or he would just get back into bed and wrap himself around the only person in the world who mattered. Clark smiled as Bruce shifted, rolled on his side to make a place for him.

+

Bruce was addicted to this feeling: of the bed like a bank of clouds, and Clark's eyes over and through him like the sky, arms tight around him. The comforting beat of a heart that he could feel and hear because he was pressed to Clark's chest.

The change in Clark was obvious, to anyone who knew him, had seen him at some of his worst moments. It was amazing to think one event, or one series of events could change anything, but they had come so close to the edge of disaster, survived a crimson gash in time that could have easily left them with nothing—no trust, no friendship, no love. Maybe it was something of a manipulation, to allow Clark to skirt that edge, to goad him, egg him on, to allow him something that outweighed even the darkness and hope he could find something inside that would restrain him…

That restraint was called love. Bruce could see it in his eyes now— _the whole world can go to hell, but you, you I will treasure_ —and it was enough. It was everything.

They were both awake—both equally disinclined to get out of bed. It was noon, but it was noon on a Saturday. There wasn't really any reason to get up. Besides, Bruce was sore, aching really, in embarrassing places, and Clark was being so…comforting. It was just such a _relief,_ to have everything that could have fallen apart come around…stronger than ever. _Clark loved him._ He loved—

Things would be okay. Everything would fall into place again. _Everything he wanted was possible._

A finger mapped the circumference of a bruise on his shoulder. "I didn't mean to—"

"You don't have to keep apologizing. I know."

"I need you to understand, though—"

"I understand."

A voice—lightly accusing, but mostly hurt, "He was kissing you. _Harvey._ You let him kiss you—"

Bruce snapped, "Now you know how it feels."

A sigh. "That's not what I meant." Bruce kept his head ducked into Clark's neck, felt him shiver as breath ghosted over skin. "I was a little drunk, but mostly I was upset. Harvey…kissed me, and I kissed him back because it seemed like the thing to do at the time. You're always—" he stopped. He didn't want to get into a discussion of the unimportant ones. "I saw you at the club with that girl, Lana—"

"You were at the club?"

Bruce nodded. "I saw you kiss her. I didn't think—I didn't think you were coming back." He paused. "Do you understand?" He was capable of anything, _any random act of self-destruction,_ if Clark were to leave him—

Clark was silent for moments that seemed too long to Bruce. Maybe it was because he wanted so desperately to put all this behind them, to move _forward_ with plans, with their future—

"I kissed her," Clark admitted. "I wanted to see—I wanted to see if she tasted like you, made me feel the way you do. She told me she was in love with me the day I left Smallville, but she was too afraid to come with me. She showed up at my apartment and she said she wanted to stay—"

Bruce closed his eyes, tightened his arms around Clark's torso. "And did she?"

Again the studied silence. "I thought I was in love with her. I didn't know what the word meant."

"And now you do?"

Clark put a hand in his hair, pulled his head back so he could bestow kiss after sun drenched kiss, whispering, _"Now I do."_

Clark pulled back. "Harvey—"

"—Is my friend. I'm being honest with you, Clark. I never kissed him or thought about kissing him before last night. It won't happen again. We don't have that kind of a relationship."

"He loves you."

"He _worships_ me. There's a difference."

Clark was surly. "I don't like him."

"You don't have to like him. You just have to respect the fact that he's my friend."

"If Lex were here, would you _respect_ him as my _friend?"_

 _Always Lex._ Bruce shot back, "If Lex were here would you give me any reason not to?"

There was tension in the air now. Clark's hand had stopped its caressing motion against his shoulder; the other had fallen away from his hair.

Then, "You haven't said it back."

"What?"

"You haven't said it back. I told you I love you and you—"

"I love you, Clark." Bruce sighed. _God help us both._ "I love you." He could feel Clark smiling into his hair.

"Then Harvey can stay around—as long as he keeps his hands to himself from now on."

"Gee, thanks," Bruce said, dryly.

"And Lex—" Clark paused. "Lex is dead," he said firmly. "It's stupid to even think about him now."

Bruce couldn't agree more.

But there were still so many other things for them to discuss, and Bruce supposed that now was as good a time as any. He pulled away from Clark so they were laying side-by-side and could talk to each other plainly.

"Clark, we do have to talk about…us."

Clark's gaze was wary. "Us?"

"I need to know what we're doing here before this goes any further, what your plans are. I think if we had plans, we wouldn't have so much other stuff in the way."

"You're big on plans," Clark chuckled. "But you can't plan everything, angel. Some things—the best things," he leered, ran a hand down the curve of his waist and over to cup a buttock, "you just have to _do."_

"But if we have a plan—"

Clark sighed. "You want to control everything," he groused. "What kind of plan?"

"Harvey made a suggestion—"

 _"Harvey._ Are you ever going to stop talking about him—"

"Come on, Clark. He can get you into a private boarding school in California. It's a great school, not too far from the beach. You would have room and board, and could finish school. I can take care of everything. No one would bother you. You wouldn't have to worry about _anything."_

Clark had frozen in place, a beautiful statue. "You—you want me to leave?"

"No," Bruce said, hand raking through his hair. "I want you to know your options. Going to Chamanade is a very good option. It's a good option for your future."

"You want me to enroll in some boarding school in California?" Clark's voice sounded impossibly young in its amazement, almost as if Bruce were betraying him by simply making the suggestion. "Where will you be?"

"Here, I guess—"

Clark was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind, and, frankly, Bruce felt crazy—sick—for making this suggestion at all. _He couldn't send Clark away._

"No. I'm not going to some stupid boarding school. Forget that. _No."_

"Is there any way I can change your mind?"

 _"No."_

There was silence.

"I don't want anyone to think—I don't want _you_ to ever think—that I took advantage of you, that I didn't have the right intentions."

"No. You can't make me go. I won't."

"There is another option," Bruce offered slowly, heart thumping. "You could stay…with me."

Clark nodded. "That's what I'm doing."

Bruce smiled. "Not here. We couldn't stay here, not with this mess going on with Morgan Edge, and…it would be complicated here. I was thinking we could…travel, for a year. Do Europe and Asia—anyplace you wanted to go."

"Travel—with you?"

"Yeah," Bruce struggled to sit up, excited now that he could present a real plan, one that could make both of them happy, "if you wanted. You know I'm into martial arts. There are places I could study in Asia—places where the training is unlike anything I'd get in the states. You could come with me. Maybe you'd like to train, too. You'd be good, I just know it—but you'd have to have a tutor, get your high school diploma, at least. We can figure out college afterwards. You can't just drop out of school."

Clark was studying him. "You want me to go with you." He smiled, and the sight caused the butterflies to take off, the keen edge of anticipation to slice through Bruce like a knife. "I'd have to finish this job for Edge—"

"—To get you a passport, or else we'd have to talk to your parents—"

"No—"

"Then Edge is the best option, but we do this carefully. You let me help you finish this with the least amount of trouble."

"What about the police academy?"

Bruce paused, looked away, admitted, "I—I hate it."

Clark threw himself back on the pillows, crossed his hands behind his head. "A plan," he said. "I think I like it."

Bruce exhaled slowly.

"Are you hungry?" Clark asked suddenly, sitting up in the bed in a burst of energy. "I'm starving. You want to order something?"

"Sure—"

"You pick," Clark said, climbing out of bed and heading to the bathroom. "We can watch the game."

Clark disappeared, then reappeared in the doorway to the bathroom after a few minutes, naked, godlike. "After the game, maybe we could—"

He waggled his eyebrows.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Maybe—"

Clark was at the side of the bed in a blink of an eye. He gathered a startled Bruce up in his arms, lifting him clear off the bed in one impressive heave. Bruce was too shocked to object. Clark proceeded to carry him into the living room.

"Maybe yes?" he said, smiling wide and depositing him carefully on the sofa in front of the television.

Bruce found his voice, stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. "Definitely, maybe yes."

+

"I owe you a date," Clark said as he continued to massage the foot that was in his lap. Bruce's feet were perfect, just like the rest of him. Clark found them fascinating in their perfection.

"You do," Bruce agreed, "and you owe me a blowjob." An eyebrow went up. "Metropolis is toast."

He glanced at the television. Bruce was right. The clock was at two minutes and Metropolis was down by fourteen. Barring a miracle, the game was over. Good thing he wouldn't mind paying up—not at _all._

Clark brought Bruce's foot to his mouth, starting kissing and nibbling toes. His sofa-mate laughed, squirming and trying to get away. Clark made his way to the inside of Bruce's leg, at the ankle, then up his calf, kissing, licking. Bruce stilled, and let his legs fall open.

"What do you want to do now?" Clark asked.

"I thought you were about to pay up." Bruce's grin was lecherous.

"I could do that…or we could do something else…"

"Something, like what…?"

"It would be a surprise." Clark moved up between Bruce's legs, started kissing the inside of a thigh. "So pick: instant gratification now, or a surprise later."

Perhaps his offer wasn't fair, Clark realized. Bruce was already breathing fast, and his cock was rigid and straining, begging for attention. Clark sucked on the soft inner flesh, ignoring that hard length—for the moment. A hand found his hair, and Bruce pulled him up for a kiss.

"I want both," he said, into Clark's mouth.

"Greedy—"

"For you. And I make no apologies." He pushed at Clark's shoulders, pushing him down. "Now, pay up."

"With pleasure."

Clark started slow. He thought it would be fun to see just how crazy he could make Bruce, whether he could make him beg for it. He didn't realize that the giving of pleasure was just as addictive as the receiving, and that each elicited groan, each stuttering gasp of his name— _Clark_ —each uncontrolled jerk of hips and insistent tug at his hair would serve as an accelerant, would turn him wild and sloppy and eager to drown himself in the escalation. He started off slow but ended it quick, with the shameless sounds of his wild and greedy ministrations loud in the apartment. When Bruce was done, when his cock was flaccid and twitching feebly in his mouth, Clark drew back slowly, kissing the head of the member that had just taught him something new, burying his nose in dark curls, making his way up past a belly button that begged to be licked, and a perfectly flat stomach, defined and beautiful. Working his way to one hard nipple, then the other, laving attention that made Bruce sigh and shudder beneath him.

Until his lips found the profile, the lines of a pale and perfect face. The jaw line, a cheekbone, the lids of eyes that were closed in contentment, the pulse at each temple. A quick meeting of lips, sharing of tongues, then Clark pulled back, levering himself up.

"Take a nap," he said. "I'll wake you when it's ready."

Bruce opened one eye. "When what's ready?"

"Go to sleep. It won't be long."

+

Bruce woke to the sound of his name, but it seemed to echo in his head. He was alone in the living room, but he knew it was time to get up and find Clark.

The sun was setting outside, and the apartment was in shadows. Everything was neat and orderly, and but for the open door to the balcony that allowed the breeze to roam through, there was no sign that Clark had changed anything.

To the bedroom, then.

The biggest piece of furniture caught his eye immediately. Clark had made the bed, and turned down one corner…and sprinkled the pillows and the sheets with petals, red rose petals. Bruce glanced at the alarm clock. He had only been asleep for…forty-five minutes. Where had Clark gotten flowers? Then the flickering light coming from the bathroom caught his attention, the door ajar and beckoning. The smell of flowers snagged his senses as he made his way over there, a strong, heady scent as he reached out a hand to push the door open enough so he could pass through.

There were candles. Everywhere. Clark was in the master bath, jet streams creating bubbles in a soft gurgle. Bruce caught his breath sharply. Clark looked totally relaxed. And _beautiful._ There was no other word for it. He was immersed in water but his arms, and upper chest were invitingly exposed. Bubbles encircled him, and the candlelight danced on his distinct features, illuminating his sun-touched skin. His face was flushed with heat, the heat of the bath, the heat of desire. Dark hair framed his face damply. His eyes were like precious stones and about as readable.

"Are you coming in?"

Bruce shook himself from his bemusement and complied, stepping gingerly into the hot water with a sigh and settling between Clark's legs, so he could lean back against him.

"This was your surprise?"

Clark nodded into his neck.

"Lex told me about a time he seduced a girl like this."

"I don't need to be seduced, and I'm not a girl—"

"All the same," Clark said, kissing his neck, licking at the moisture there, "I thought you would like it, that it would make you feel better, after—"

"I feel perfect." He closed his eyes. "This is perfect—"

"I love you, angel," Clark said. "I don't know when, how—"

"I love you, Clark Kent. Even though you're often obnoxious, and demanding, and have a chip on your shoulder the size of Kansas—"

"Hey!" Clark splashed water in his face indignantly, bubbles flying everywhere. "You spoiled it—"

Bruce turned his head, brought their lips together for a kiss. "Nothing could spoil this."

 _Nothing._

The hot jets of water were like heaven against the sore places, the bubbles a relaxing, cleansing balm. Clark tended to him like an acolyte, hands caressing, a soft sponge across his chest, underneath the water, washing away the weight of the world. Clark alternated light teasing kisses with gentle finger strokes on his neck, and shoulders and back. And delicate licks of the tongue that kept his nerves electrified.

Bruce had never enjoyed anything like this, had never had the opportunity, taken the chance—on anyone. If he had only known what he had been missing…but then, he would never have known to miss anything at all—until Clark.

+

The water was cooling. They had been in the tub for over an hour, and it was probably time to relocate, Clark figured. Bruce had lapsed into silence a while ago, and seemed to be a melted slab of clay molded back to chest. It was a shame to have to disturb him, but Clark was feeling…antsy, and the idea of having Bruce naked and exposed on a bed was pulling at him.

He kissed the shell of an ear. "Scoot up," he whispered. "I'm getting out."

Reluctantly, Bruce complied. Levering forward so Clark could step out of the tub, and then falling back, eyes watching. Clark reached for a towel, big and fluffy, and nodded to Bruce that he should rise. He did, stepping out of the tub gracefully, water dripping from his naked body—

And Clark knew what it was to be jealous of a drop of water that clings; that spends itself and soaks itself into such perfection.

The towel that Clark had been holding expectantly a moment before was on the floor, and two naked bodies wrapped themselves around each other, erections trapped and straining in the between. Deep, devouring pleasure ate at them as their mouths locked and tongues entwined. Wet bodies slid against each other and hands grabbed and kneaded until all that existed were the sensations—the indescribable sensations, the colossal rush. Bruce had a hand in his hair, grabbing, trying to bring him closer. Clark knew if he did not slow it down, he would spend himself right here, right in the middle of the bathroom.

That wasn't the plan—that wasn't the plan at all.

He broke away and picked the towel up off the floor quickly. He wrapped it around Bruce lovingly, and then ducked down and scooped him up into his arms. Bruce yelped.

"Clark! Put me down!"

Clark laughed. "Not yet."

He carried Bruce into the bedroom and deposited him on the bed. Bruce propped himself up on elbows, eyes glittering in the pale light. "You have to stop doing that—"

"That's not what you say when I find you asleep on the sofa at night and have to put you to bed," Clark said, indignant. "You wrap your arms around my neck and say my name so sweetly—"

A pillow flew, hitting him in the head. Clark laughed. "Stay there—don't move."

He jogged over to the bathroom to blow out the candles. He didn't want to burn the apartment down.

"I have to weigh as much as you—"

"In your dreams," Clark scoffed, re-entering the bedroom and jumping on the bed and on Bruce, pinning him. "You're light in the ass, by a good twenty pounds. Lifting you is no problem for a farm-bred stud like myself. You're like a feather—"

"Excuse me," Bruce said, twisting, laughing. "All that experience rustling cows, carrying them to your bed—"

"Ew! You're sick—"

They tussled their way to the middle of the bed. Somehow, Bruce ended up on top.

"Thank you," he said, leaning in and kissing Clark. "For the surprise. It was fun."

Clark lost himself in the sweetness of the embrace, pulled Bruce down so they were more closely connected, half-hard erections trapped between bodies in warmth and delicious pressure.

"There's more," Clark said carefully. "If you want it—"

"Want what?"

"Me." Heat warmed his face. "If you want."

Bruce rolled away and to the side.

"I don't know, Clark—"

"You don't want to?"

A loud, frustrated sigh. "Of course I do. It's just—I don't want you to feel pressured, like you have to make something up to me…"

"It's not that," Clark disagreed. "I want—"

Bruce glanced at him sidelong, then quickly away. "Have you ever done it before, Clark?" he asked, as if he really didn't want to know the answer.

"No, but—"

"I know. You've read about it on the internet."

Another sigh, but Clark could tell Bruce was warming to the idea. His cock was twitching; Clark could hear his heart racing.

"We need…things, condoms, some sort of lubricant. We can't just—"

Clark reached over him and into the drawer in the nightstand by the bedside. Pulled out supplies and dropped them on the bed, triumphantly.

"When did you…?"

"I knew you were going to complain. I prepared."

Bruce blinked, reached out a hand to palm the bottle of lubricant and the condoms, gathered them up and set them on the nightstand, within easy reach. "Don't tell me—you were a Boy Scout growing up?"

Clark grinned, laid back on the bed. "Always prepared."

"Still, Clark, maybe we should wait—"

Clark reached out, pulled Bruce to himself and hugged him tightly. "I don't want to wait. Who knows what could happen tomorrow? I want us to have all the time in the world, angel, but I've learned—" he paused, his whole life flashing in front of his eyes, "I've learned things happen, good things, bad things. No one can guarantee _anything._ All we have is right now."

He kissed Bruce. "I want to do this." The kiss turned heated. "With you."

Clark laid back and let Bruce take the lead. Bruce moved over him, pressed him down onto cool, smooth sheets, curved to his body. He started slowly, laving attention on so many parts of Clark's body that it made his head spin, his eyes flutter closed. His hands were firm, his lips soft and insistent. His tongue found every indenture and crevasse, following the strong lines that led to Clark's erection, hard and straining.

Lips and tongue—kisses, teasing nips and gentle bites, _sucking,_ a mouth surrounding, hot and wet. Clark knew he was begging—for what, he wasn't quite sure—but Bruce soothed him with whispered promises of more and better things if he would only be patient.

Clark jerked up off the bed when oiled fingers breeched his body, moaned beseechingly as they scissored inside, became frantic when they hit a certain spot and lights exploded behind his eyes. Clark needed more—more and better contact. Needed Bruce to be inside, a part of him.

 _"Now, angel,"_ he begged. _"Do it now. Stop teasing—"_

"Easy, Clark, I don't want to hurt—"

 _"You won't hurt me. Just come on, please—"_

Slowly and sweetly, face-to-face, tentative this time unlike the last time they had been together like this, exploring rather than invading, with the utmost love rather than desperate anger. As Bruce entered him in increments, inch by excruciating inch, Clark gave himself up to this moment stretched to infinity. Lost himself in it. Drowned in it.

It was only his eyes that were locked on the sharp planes of Bruce's face, the pearls of perspiration as they trailed down his hairline and splashed against his face, that noticed, as the rhythm—once slow and careful—escalated into a frenzy of deep penetration, of interior strokes that lanced through him like the stars, hitting that certain place and making the sun explode with every thrust. His eyes that first noticed and then followed the Kryptonian symbols that swirled like live lights underneath Bruce's skin, turning it translucent, causing Clark to suck in his breath in wonder as his eyes fluttered closed and then open in ecstasy. Eyes locked on the words as they flitted across the landscape of a face: words that spelled _El_ and detailed the lineage of a _House,_ and named the person so marked _The One Loved._


	18. The Soul Blows Through

**XVII. The Soul Blows Through**

 _…and our problems will crumble apart, the soul  
blow through like a wind, and here where we live  
will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table._

+

 _And later…_

They spent the entire night talking, and making mad, hysterical love. They laughed a lot, in the darkness, with the pale illumination of the moon pouring through windows, fought their way across and over the bed, and onto the floor in a heap of limbs, broke a pillow open and chased each other into the living room to escape the vicious swirl of feathers. They raided the refrigerator, and made a mess of each other when Clark discovered that most anything tasted better when licked off of skin, rather than eaten from a plate or from a bowl. Then the desire for a quick shower degenerated into a water fight, that drenched the entire bathroom. It all ended hotly with Clark, faced pressed to the ceramic tile, calling out his name loud and wild.

Conversation came fast and easy as they settled together with a sheet in a lounge chair on the balcony, laughing at the way the chair creaked with their combined weight, swearing to get one of those big sleeping bags that they could share because the night sky was so beautiful, and it was the perfect backdrop for whispered discussions about Smallville and Gotham and their hopes and their dreams. They just held each other, and watched the stars, and talked—and talked and kissed—and the sun cresting the horizon came as a complete surprise. It was the dawn in the morning sky, so soft and yellow.

It was also Sunday. It was the last notice Bruce took of the passage of days. He lost track of time entirely, because the two of them never once left the apartment. And perhaps this long, cerulean-colored dream catered to the worst parts of his isolationist nature, but Clark was wonderful, insatiable, and there were so many things for them to try that required nothing at all of the outside world. That required only the press of skin, and lips and tongue—and sometimes access to the Internet, when Clark was feeling adventurous.

"Can we try this?" Clark would suddenly say, pointing at the computer screen, waving for Bruce to come over.

A click of a mouse, an indrawn breath. "Or _this_ …Bruce, can we try _this?"_

All Bruce could do was laugh, because it was all so new to him, too.

It was—Bruce checked his cell phone display— _Thursday_ before the call from Alfred came, and Bruce knew they would have to think about leaving the apartment, getting back to reality, paying the piper, at least on his end because he couldn't remember the last time he'd reported in at the academy. It had to have been at least…a week ago.

"Are you going to answer that?" Clark asked from the sofa. He was naked, long limbs displayed, reading a book Bruce had recommended. Clothing had been optional and out of favor between them for…quite some time now.

Bruce hit a button to stop the ringing, and placed the phone on the table. "It was Alfred," he said, and sighed.

"Why didn't you talk to him?"

"I know why he's calling," Bruce said, running a hand through his hair and thinking fast, making a decision. "And what I have to say needs to be said in person."

Bruce watched Clark put the book down slowly.

"I have to go to Gotham."

"When?"

"If I go now, I could be back by tomorrow night."

A thundercloud passed over Clark's face. "Why?"

"Alfred deserves an explanation. I can't just rearrange my life, disappear, without telling him anything. If I take the time now to explain about us, Alfred will understand, he'll help us. If I disrespect him, it'll only make things harder."

"He's not your father."

Bruce shook his head, voice determined. "He's not my father, but he's the closest I'll ever have to one."

Bruce took a seat on the sofa next to him. "I need to go alone this time, Clark, but that doesn't mean I don't want you with me. I have to talk to Alfred, and it'll be easier if I'm alone because if I bring company, he'll go into a frenzy of proper etiquette, and I won't get what I need accomplished. I'll tell him all about you, though, and you'll have a chance to meet him before we leave for Europe. Okay?"

Clark was frowning. "Just one day?"

"I'll be back tomorrow evening."

Clark's face broke out into a smile, and Bruce felt the relief wash over him like a cool wave.

"I think I can amuse myself for a night and a day," Clark said, smirking. "At least I'll be able to get some sleep. You've been chasing me around the apartment like a bunny, randy as a goat, thought I'd never get a chance to escape—"

Bruce tackled him, had him laughing and apologizing and begging for more before he was through.

Later, Bruce sat at his desk and made all the arrangements. His plane was leaving in three hours, he had packed a small bag, called for a car. He was dressed in a suit and was studying Clark who had bowed to the occasion and donned t-shirt and shorts.

"You're going to be alright? You're not going to do anything without me, get into any trouble?"

Clark chuckled. "Trouble? When do I get into—"

Bruce punched him in the shoulder, drew back his hand, shaking it and complaining.

"Why does it always feel like I'm hitting a brick wall when I hit you?"

"Because you are weak, and I—I am _strong,"_ Clark said, thumping his chest like a gorilla.

Bruce scoffed, pulled out his wallet and one of his charge cards with no limits. "Yeah—anyway, Tarzan, I want to leave this with you—"

Clark scowled. "I told you I don't need your money—"

Bruce reached out, placed a placating hand on Clark's arm. "I know you don't need it, but I want you to take it anyway. I don't want you stealing, Clark, or going to see Edge without me. Anything you want— _anything_ —just use the card." Clark was looking at him rebelliously. "We have a plan now, right?" Bruce tried again. "As soon as we take care of everything here we can leave. We don't want anything to mess us up now…"

A world of responses flashed behind Clark's eyes as they studied him, shadows flitting across his face, but then there was a thoughtful frown and a silent capitulation.

"No," Clark said slowly, taking the card and putting it on the table. "I don't want to mess anything up."

Bruce leaned in and kissed him, already missing him dreadfully.

"I have to go," he groaned, when Clark's hands started to work at his belt.

Clark's grin was unrepentant. "Just a quickie," he said, wagging his eyebrows, hands nimble and working wonders. Now his belt was unfastened and his zipper was open. Clark's fingers were sweet relief against his straining hardness.

"To remember me by," Clark said, as he sank to his knees.

+

 _Friday night…at the Wayne penthouse…in Metropolis…_

Harvey Dent wasn't sure what had possessed him to accept the invitation, except Clark had said the supposed "party" was taking place at _Bruce's penthouse,_ and the curiosity was…killing him.

After all, when had Bruce ever held a party…in his own apartment? Ever? That simply wasn't his friend's style, to allow more than a handful of people into his inner sanctum, to roam around…touching things…with impunity.

What Clark had obviously failed to mention in his brief and vaguely insulting cell phone call was that Bruce would be nowhere in evidence…at this party…in his apartment. Harvey grabbed a beer and settled himself in a corner, watching and waiting.

He had brought a group of guys with him—at Clark's instruction—who were all college friends. They were dispersed throughout the apartment. Nick, who would be starting law school with him in August, was on the balcony with a brown-haired, mousy-looking slip of a girl…but he looked like he was going to get lucky, and, Harvey supposed, that was all that mattered.

The rest of the apartment was full to overflowing with strangers. There was a deejay, and girls passing through the crowd, serving beer and hard liquor in cups. People were smoking, dancing, doing other wild things in any available sliver of darkness. Ordinarily, Harvey would be right in his element, but this time, he stayed on the fringe, ignoring the many invitations, sipping his beer speculatively. Trying to figure out what the hell Clark was doing. He had to know that Bruce would have a fit—

Speaking of their resident juvenile delinquent.

 _"Harv,"_ Clark yelled in his ear, over the music, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

"Don't call me that," Harvey grumbled, trying to shake the arm off, but it stayed around his shoulders like a steel band. "My name is Harvey."

"Isn't that what Bruce calls you— _Harv?"_

"That's Bruce."

"And he has _special_ privileges." Clark's grip tightened, his eyes were sharp, his smile small, lip curled in a slight sneer. "I forgot."

Harvey refused to play this game with a high school kid—on principle. He just—he wouldn't. No matter how much the kid worked his last nerve.

"Right," Clark said, letting him go and patting him on the shoulder. "Glad you could make it, Harv. Try to have some fun." Clark leaned in, whispered low in his ear, "I know you're waiting for Bruce, but he'll be too busy for you when he gets here. Trust me, you'd be better off finding yourself a substitute—like you usually do."

Then he was off again and into the crowd, and Harvey was scowling, _"Asshole,"_ under his breath, but, really, what was the point?

Harvey studied the kid as he made his rounds, always someone trailing along behind him, always someone hanging on his arm. He could easily see why Bruce was attracted. The kid was gorgeous, a head above everyone else, with strong, perfect features and the most spectacular blue eyes. He had a magnetism that was palpable, too, undeniably sexy.

Another beer while he watched with interest as a bold blond guy cornered Clark by the door to the second bedroom, trying to convince him, no doubt, that a trip inside the room would be worth his time. Harvey perked up at the thought of seeing a display of Clark's true colors as the kid tilted his head, allowing the guy closer to his ear, smiling slowly, guilelessly. The kid pointed to a place behind the guy's back, over his shoulder and to the left. The guy turned and saw what Harvey saw: Bruce standing there in a dark suit and carrying an overnight bag.

 _Finally!_ Harvey straightened, relieved now that his friend was on the scene. Confident Bruce would put the delinquent in his place, likely kick him out on his ear. With bated breath, Harvey watched as a hand on the blond's arm and a few choice words chased him away. Until Bruce was confronting his houseguest, alone and leaning against the wall. He did not look happy.

Harvey watched the strangest thing happen: Bruce dropped his bag and stepped close to Clark. Instead of tearing him a new one for the party and for various other indiscretions, he reached out and cupped the back of Clark's neck with a hand, leaned in until their foreheads were touching. Harvey could see his lips moving, would have given a lot to hear what they were saying to each other in hushed tones under the pounding of the music. Clark smiled, looking…much younger, softer, less harshly defined for a moment. He reached out for Bruce's tie, pulling it loose and over his head. Hands were at his shoulders, pushing his jacket off, and fingers were working open the top two buttons of his shirt.

All this, Bruce allowed, to Harvey's shock and amazement. Even the hug that followed, when Clark pulled him in, and the kiss, hot and tender, that followed after that. Not once during the entire exchange did Bruce notice anyone else in the room. Not once did his eyes leave Clark's face.

Harvey had seen such behavior before—other guys in college who had fallen head over heals in love. He had even felt that way a time or two himself—but never Bruce. Gotham's prince had always been above it all. He supposed it wasn't so incomprehensible that Bruce would succumb to a temptation like Clark. There wasn't a guy in the world who couldn't be broken down, provided it was the right temptation, put in the right spot.

As Harvey watched Clark and Bruce grab beers, wreak havoc with a clutch of girls who were giggling over them…as he studied a Bruce who looked—carefree, and happy, and, finally, like the wild young person Harvey had spent years trying to cajole him into being. As he watched Clark and Bruce dance by themselves in a dark corner, bodies close, the whole world tuned out, Harvey had to admit they were quite a pair. He had to admit that together they were—

Beautiful. _Darkly glittering._ Mesmerizing.

He had to admit, it was hard to pull his eyes away.

+

 _Later that night…on the balcony…after the party…_

"One star is enough," Clark said, eyes to the night sky.

"For—?"

"Contrast. You don't need a sky full of stars. You only need one star to light the way. One star is enough to let you know there's more than just darkness, up there somewhere."

Bruce moved from the balcony doorway to the chair by Clark, passing him a cold slice of pizza on a paper plate and a can of Coke. "Feeling philosophical?"

"I'm just saying. I've always liked watching the stars. I had a telescope set up in the loft of our barn in Smallville. The sky there was so clear, you could see a million stars. Not like here in Metropolis."

"In Gotham, you're lucky if you can see the moon, the pollution is so bad, let alone any of the stars."

Clark grinned at him, eyes twinkling. "But you only need to see one."

Bruce nodded, smiled. "You only need one."

"How did it go with Alfred?"

"Not as well as I'd have liked." Bruce sighed. It was late, and they'd just cleared the apartment of partygoers. He had been hoping to save this conversation for the morning, but Clark was a night owl, and he really didn't look tired at all.

"What happened?"

"I told him everything, about the academy, about us, about our plans. He—understood. Alfred's not the type to try to stand in the way of anything I really want to do. He trusts me…"

Clark had finished his food. He was now just staring, watching and waiting, the look on his face tense.

"But…?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "But he made some good points. He said this is my first real job, and I've made a commitment. He said he didn't have any problem with me taking a year off and traveling, but the right thing to do would be to finish at the academy, graduate, and then take a leave. That way, if things change in a year, I would still have something I'd completed to fall back on."

Clark got to his feet, went over to the balustrade, leaned over. "If things change."

Bruce was at his side in a heartbeat. "Not between us. Things won't change between us."

"Things are already changing."

"He was only saying I should finish the academy as a fallback, in case I decide to go into law enforcement in the future after all. I've already come so far."

Clark glanced at him sidelong. "You don't have to listen to him, you know. You have all the money in the world. He doesn't control you."

Bruce reached out, took Clark's hand, brought the back of it to his lips. "I don't have to listen but I respect him, I respect his opinion, and he's right. I have a reputation as a Wayne, and I've made a commitment." He studied Clark's profile. "We're only talking a three week delay."

Clark shrugged, pulled his hand away. "Hey, this was all your idea, angel. I don't care if we go or not. I have a million things to do right here in Metropolis—"

"Don't be like that, Clark—"

They were silent, standing side-by-side, staring at the whole of Metropolis, the whole of the night sky like a blanket laid out before them.

"Three weeks," Clark said.

Bruce reached out again, this time Clark allowed his touch. This time, Clark turned and wrapped him in his arms. "Three weeks will go by in a flash," Bruce said, voice confident. "I want you to meet Alfred, so I was thinking we'd take a week to wrap up things here, and a week visiting in Gotham. Then, we'll take the corporate jet to Europe, and from that point we'll be free to do whatever we want."

Clark wasn't listening, Bruce could tell. He was staring in his eyes. Leaned in to kiss his nose, and his temples, and his cheeks and, finally, his lips.

"Are you listening to me?" Bruce murmured, eyes closing.

"I only need one star," Clark said, brushing lips over the line of his jaw, kissing his chin. "Wherever you go, I'll follow. I don't care _when_ we go, or _if_ we go. As long as I have you with me—"

Bruce tilted his head, and silenced Clark with a kiss.

+

 _Late the next night…at a commercial airstrip…on the outskirts of Metropolis…_

Bruce checked his watch. It was just after ten o'clock, and Clark had dragged him to this remote area after dinner and a movie, refusing to take a moment to explain. They were out on his motorcycle, rather than in Bruce's car, and there wasn't an appropriate way to argue in transit. But now that they'd arrived at their destination—a corporate airfield in a Metropolis industrial park on the south side—he wanted an explanation, as they stood in the shadows at the perimeter of a small parking area, by a chain link fence that blocked the lot from the two runways.

"Are you going to tell me what we're doing out here—"

Clark moved them a little further into the shadows, away from the fence and between two parked luggage transports, quieting him with a hand to his arm. "You wanted in on the job for Edge," he said, voice low, though the area was deserted and there really wasn't anyone around to overhear. "This is part of the job." Clark pointed. "We're going over that fence."

"I wanted you to tell me in advance, not drag me into something without a plan," Bruce groused as Clark took three steps away and then climbed up and flipped over the fence in a quick, athletic movement. Bruce looked around, swore under his breath, and vaulted the fence in short order, landing on his feet with a scowl on his face directed at Clark.

"Clark—"

Clark took his hand, pulled him around back of a grouping of two-ton storage containers and over to the side of a building. There, they crouched in the darkness, studying the quiescent scene around them. A security guard passed by, whistling and jingling a set of keys, about twenty feet in front of them. Bruce stiffened.

"Relax, angel," Clark kept his voice low, but he didn't seem worried, "we're just checking the place out."

"Why—?"

Motioning for silence, Clark pointed to a hanger bay, one of three large, oval-shaped buildings that housed corporate Learjets used by company executives, and was moving in that direction before Bruce could object further. The only option was to follow.

They passed through the shadow of a prop plane, parked off to the side. Bruce had an eye out for more of the guards, but it seemed as if the facility was deserted for the night, the one guard and his convenient whistling easy to track in the distance. Clark seemed to know where he was going. Bruce could only hope he knew what he was doing, too, because if they got caught, it would be difficult to explain breaking and entering onto private property.

Clark, moving confidently in front of him, seemed unconcerned about any possible consequences. Bruce followed him, but unease settled like a brick in the pit of his stomach.

They reached the first hanger bay, and a door in the side of the building that clearly led inside. Clark turned the handle. It was locked.

Bruce reached out a hand. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Look," Clark said, motioning with his head.

"What?" Bruce shifted, looking over his shoulder, expecting trouble. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"Never mind. I thought I saw a guard," Clark whispered. He tried the door again. It opened. "We got lucky. Stay close."

Clark moved through the darkened facility, to a crating area that had a good view of the rest of the large warehouse. There was only one plane in the bay, and the spotlights lighting its exterior were the only illumination. Shadows were plentiful, but Bruce suspected there had to be some other type of security—

"There have to be cameras in here, somewhere, Clark—"

Clark pointed up, to a perimeter railing. Bruce recognized three security cameras, but they seemed fire-damaged. Burned and clearly inoperable.

"If we stay here," Clark said, indicating an area of about twenty feet square, "we'll be fine."

Bruce stared at Clark in amazement. "How—what does this place have to do with—?"

"In order to wrap up this thing with Edge," Clark said, eyes roaming the facility, "I had to promise him one big score, something only I could get for him. Something he couldn't get any other way."

"He wants you to try and steal something his own guys can't get? Clark, that's ridiculous—"

An eyebrow went up. Clark smirked with the same cocky arrogance that had been so appalling when he was running roughshod over people at the club. "I have certain resources—"

Bruce blinked. "What resources? And what are you stealing? You can't just steal things and expect—" He took a deep breath, hand to hair. "Maybe this isn't going to work—"

Clark shrugged. "Is it really stealing if all I'm doing is robbing one thief for another?"

Bruce pulled at Clark's arm, spun him so his back was against a wall. He glared icicles at him. This wasn't a joke. Any minute they could get caught in this place, and Clark was acting like they were engaged in some virtual reality video game. "What's going on, Clark?"

"Edge wants Bruno Mannheim's black book—"

"Bruno Mannheim, the gangster? The man suspected of having connections to crime syndicates all over the world, terrorism, corporate espionage?" Bruce interrupted, voice rising. "Clark—"

"Relax, angel," Clark said, reaching out and brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. Bruce swatted his hand away.

"The book is not actually a book at all. Apparently, it's a computerized decryption key that will allow the person using it to access Mannheim's entire operation. It's worth a lot of money to Edge."

"How much money?"

"Five million dollars, in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands, in addition to the identity papers."

"Five million dollars? He's going to pay you that much money for this job? Clark—"

"He can keep the money, angel. I don't care about that. I'm telling you this so you can understand how important it is for me to do this job—how important it is to Edge. I do this, he'll be satisfied. You'll be safe."

"Safe? You can't mess with these kinds of criminals! It'll only blow up in your face—"

Clark glared right back at him, rebelliously. "I know what I'm doing. Listen, Edge explained everything. The information is stored on a server. The server is on a private plane that lands only once a month for two hours for maintenance. Edge found out that the plane will land here this month, but not exactly when—though it will be sometime within the next week. There's a girl who works here with the weekly flight plan information for the FCC. I need to get it. I need to steal the black book and bring it to Edge. Then this will be all over."

Bruce stared at Clark, _stared at him_ —the earnest blue eyes, the perfect planes of his face, the hair that was a little bit long now, and could really use a trim, but that fell into his eyes so endearingly. Everything that Bruce…loved, physically, passionately, that made his stomach clench and his pulse quicken. But it was so much more than that—this feeling. It was the way Clark held him when the nightmares came, the way they fit together, like pieces to a puzzle. The way Clark expanded his world from the narrow confines of focus and discipline and into the realm of the impossible…it was the way the gray landscape inside his chest shrank a little more each day that he was able to keep Clark near. Intellectually, he knew this whole situation was _lunacy,_ that it was such a bad idea to take this any further, but his heart—

"I know this isn't your style, angel," Clark said, reaching out. "You're way too good for this crap. The only reason I brought you with me is because you said you wanted to help. You made me promise not to do anything without you. Well, this is it." Clark paused, smiled a little. "It's…a little more complicated than what I'm used to doing."

Clark ducked his head, glanced up at Bruce from under long bangs. "I could use a good plan."

"You haven't explained to me how you're going to do any of this." Bruce capitulated with a small sigh of frustration, with the distinct feeling that this was a huge mistake, _but what the hell. Bring it on._ "How would a seventeen-year-old high school student be able to do any of this?"

Clark pushed himself away from the wall, walked over to the boxes and swept the facility with his eyes, hands in the pockets of his jeans. "You're going to have to trust me, angel," he said, over his shoulder. "I can't explain. Not right now."

Bruce moved so he was standing at Clark's back. "Then when?"

"When we're on the plane," Clark said, turning. "On the way to Europe. I'll tell you everything. Everything you want to know. I promise."

"Clark—"

Clark smiled, small, regretful. "You know what Lex used to say? He'd say if you're in love, you should share your secrets or your dreams – never both." Clark took him by the shoulders, leaned in and kissed him thoroughly. "All my dreams are wrapped up in you, angel. I can't give you all of my secrets, not yet."

Bruce looked away. "Lex was hardly a role model for functioning relationships, Clark. You want me to trust you—I thought you trusted me."

"When we're in the sky, and Metropolis is behind us, I'll tell you everything. Why I left Smallville, how I do these jobs for Edge. I'll give you everything you want from me—"

Then Bruce understood. "You don't think we're going. Just because I want to wait a few weeks, you think I'm lying to you—"

"I think things change, angel. I'll have to get out of Metropolis after this job, and I can only stall for so long. I may not have three weeks until you finish the academy. I have to figure out what needs to be done here and do it. It'll put you in danger all over again, for them to see me with you after a certain point, for them to know what you mean to me."

Clark reached out, pulled Bruce into an embrace.

 _"You are everything that matters,"_ Clark whispered in his ear. "Things always go wrong for me. My life is beyond complicated. You love me now, but who knows how you'll feel when this is all over and we really have to get on that plane—"

Bruce pulled away. "My feelings won't change, Clark. Ever."

"I don't want to lie to you, but I don't want to tell you. Not yet."

Bruce glanced to his right and left. What a strange conversation to have in this deserted building in the dead of night. Two lives and one future to be decided in whispers, while avoiding surveillance and the guards who could check the building at any moment. Sometimes, it was easy to forget Clark was damaged, that he was damaged himself. That they both had issues, things too difficult to readily share, despite the fact the physical aspect of their relationship came so hot and easy.

"I don't need you to tell me," Bruce said, reaching for Clark's hand. "Keep your secrets, if you need to. Put this all behind you when it's through. I won't be the one to make you explain it all just to satisfy my curiosity. I love you. I'd love you if I didn't know anything about you at all. If I somehow forgot your face, I'd still love you. All I want is for you to be happy."

Clark inhaled sharply, like someone had just stabbed him in the stomach. His arms wrapped around Bruce in a tight embrace, and a voice, low and hitched said in his ear, "I love you, angel. I love you."

The response, soft, sure, "That's all I need to know."


	19. A Wave Taller

**XVIII. A Wave Taller**

 _Because while life harasses us, love is  
only a wave taller than the other waves:  
but oh, when trouble comes knocking at the gate,  
there is only your glance against so much emptiness,  
only your light against extinction,  
only your love to shut out the shadows._

+

 _Early the next morning…_

 _It must be an alien thing,_ Clark decided, this indifference to sleep. He could sleep, but he could just as easily…not, and with Bruce curled into his side and the pale morning light kissing ivory skin, making it glow faintly, there was no reason to waste time with eyes closed. Not when his eyesight could be better spent cataloging every small perfection.

Lightly, Clark ran the tips of his fingers over the curve of a shoulder and down one arm, marveling at the soft feel of skin, committing the feel to memory.

Who would have thought this one person would finally get it? That in Metropolis he'd find someone who…understood, without knowing anything, without really knowing anything about him at all? Lex, Lana, Chloe, Pete—his whole life, friendship, **love** had been conditioned upon the release of his secrets. Everyone needed to know about Clark Kent. How? Why? _What was he hiding?_ And that need to know superseded anything that _he_ might need, no matter how many times he saved the day, proved he was trustworthy, _normal._ They could only focus on the anomalies, even though he begged them to leave it alone.

Until Bruce had entered his life and offered him a love that was… _unconditional._ Through a red haze of memory, Clark seemed to think it was the way he felt when he thought Martha and Jonathan Kent still loved him. But that was a lifetime ago, and, besides, it was all fake, a lie.

Bruce was real.

Clark let his hand trail from arm to waist, relished the curve and the strong way the indenture led from waist to hip and down to the muscles of a thigh. Leaned in so his nose could brush the skin his fingers had just touched, and he inhaled. His tongue licked lightly, tasting.

They had made love all night long, after the stress of their argument at the airfield and the decisions and promises they made. He knew he should let the angel sleep, but Clark's need for him was undeniable, insistent. He rolled away, across the bed, so he could reach the nightstand on his right and the mostly empty bottle of lotion sitting there.

Bruce had turned in the bed, once Clark had moved, falling onto his stomach without Clark's body to prop him up, and burrowing his face into a pillow. He slept deeply when he had a chance to sleep at all, since their time in bed together was an amorous adventure, and there were never enough hours in the night for everything they were inclined to do. Reaching out, Clark snagged the corner of the sheet and pulled it away, revealing perfectly toned buttocks and long legs splayed out enticingly. Clark settled himself between thighs, ran a hand over firm cheeks. Bruce hummed softly in his sleep as Clark leaned in, spread them so he'd have better access. His tongue was light, wet as he explored, the taste igniting a fire of lust that went straight from his mouth and through him to his cock.

Bruce made a small, needy sound. A hand moved, flailing behind, found his head, buried fingers in his hair as hips shifted and levered up, allowing him to mouth cock and balls and all the places where his tongue could burrow deep.

A sigh on the air. A head turned from a pillow. A voice, low and sleepy. "What a way to wake up."

Clark reached for the bottle of lotion. A finger, pressing in, insistent, then two, working carefully.

 _"God, Clark—"_ Bruce groaned, but he was up on his knees. "Again? I have to go to class. I have to be able to _walk."_

"I'll carry you," Clark said as he positioned himself, hands on slim hips, and slowly breached the place that made him feel weak, stole his strength, sent him spinning into the sun. Bruce shuddered as he sheathed himself fully, knees buckling and putting him flat on the bed with Clark over him and through him, and connected to him like a tree to the earth, with roots planted deep. Clark stayed just like that—pressing Bruce to the bed, face buried in the feathers of his hair, hands finding their mates and entwining, allowing Bruce time to adjust, time to get ready—

 _"Clark—God, Clark, stop playing. Do it already."_

 _"Yes…"_

He started to move, slowly at first, breath stuck in the back of his throat and eyes tightly closed, and then wildly, with abandon, slamming himself inside, riding a body that rose to meet his thrusts, that broke out in a sweat as they collided, as skin, slick and hot, made wet sounds in time to groans, loud and uneven, in counterpoint to every stuttered endearment.

Clark burst into flames, losing himself inside a body that was his universe, in hot spurts that stole his senses and sent him tumbling into blackness.

He heard Bruce grumble from a great distance, pulled himself back to an awareness that he was draped on top of his bedmate, and should move, if only so Bruce could…breathe. Clark rolled, landing on his back with an arm across his face. Bruce shifted closer, resting a hand on his stomach, rubbing lightly, in small soothing circles.

"I'm sorry," Clark said, though he was too content to be truly sorry. "I know you're going to class today—"

"Don't. It's early. I have—" Clark felt the movement of body as Bruce leaned over him to look at the clock, "—three hours before I have to abase myself and beg for my spot back. Damn, it's early. There's no moss growing under your ass—"

Clark growled, and with a quick movement, he had Bruce pinned to the bed and was kissing him.

"This _ass_ needed to be inside your _ass_ —I don't care how early it is."

Bruce grinned, lips around the tongue that was pressing into his mouth. "Lucky for you I'm a light sleeper."

"You sleep like the dead—"

"I do not—"

"And those snores—"

"I don't snore!"

"You do, angel—like a gorilla."

"You lie!"

Clark fell back on the sheets, laughing. Bruce was on top of him in a heartbeat.

"First you maul me while I'm sleeping, then you insult me—you better watch it, Kent. I know kung-fu—"

"Beat me, baby," Clark said as Bruce attacked him, squirming and trying to avoid hands that were reaching for his ticklish places. "You better stop," Clark warned, "or I know someone who won't make it to class—"

"Dream on—"

A small burst of strength and speed was all it took for Clark to have Bruce on his back. He moved, holding Bruce down with a hand to his torso, and used his leverage to make an oral assault on his flaccid cock.

"Clark—" Bruce groaned. "My _dick_ is going to fall off—"

"I'll put it in a box for you," Clark said, tongue licking up and down the side of his stiffening erection. "Keep it busy until you get back from class—"

"Class—I really have to get ready, Clark—oh… _shit_ —stop." Bruce groaned. _"Don't stop…"_

When Bruce shot weakly into the back of his throat, and collapsed onto the bed with eyes closed and limbs askew, Clark chuckled. "Glad I'm not the one that has to go to class—"

"Shut. Up. I'm coming home with the handcuffs. And move, I have to get to the shower—"

"You want me—"

 _"Don't touch me—_ and no, you can't come with." Bruce took a deep breath and pulled himself to the edge of the bed. "Go back to sleep," he got up, walking gingerly over to the en suite, muttering, _"you insatiable, horny teen…"_

+

Bruce entered the apartment, dropping keys, bag, toeing off shoes and unfastening the top buttons of his blue cadet's uniform. He sighed then, looking around the quiet apartment—relieved to be home and away from the academy. He'd had to call in a favor, imposing upon a relationship of one of his old urban policy professors, to get reinstated, even though he'd been a week absent without leave. Only his fancy education, his phenomenal academy grades, his physical skills that were so much greater than everyone else's in his class, and the strength of his family's money and influence had given him this one reprieve, but they had made him beg for it, and everyone _knew_ and was so _resentful_ of his privilege. His mentor had told him to stop _fucking up,_ and had been so smug when stressing he wouldn't get another chance.

Which was fine by him. He couldn't truthfully say he wanted the one he had.

The day had been…deplorable, filled with humiliation and the gritting of teeth. Never in his entire life had he felt so stupid, so embarrassed. All he wanted now was to see Clark, take his mind off his troubles, maybe— _definitely_ —pick up where they had left off that morning, but, of course, Clark was nowhere in evidence.

Bruce frowned, the silence in the apartment deafening, worrying. _Would it always be this way, feel this way?_ he wondered. Whenever Clark wasn't right by his side. Whenever he didn't know exactly where Clark could be found? Bruce walked over to his desk, noticed a piece of paper with his name on it, propped up against a picture of his parents.

At least Clark had left a note this time. It said he was out, playing basketball in the park, and that Bruce should come on over as soon as he got—

 _Home._

Bruce folded the note, tucked it into a desk drawer, felt the unreasonable happiness bubble up in his stomach at another small sign of…progress, and did nothing to tamp it down. Such a small thing and already the pains of the day were far behind him.

Clark was in the middle of a game when Bruce reached the park, competing one-on-one against a brown-haired guy with a lean, runner's build. Both were shirtless, the strange brand on Clark's chest looking more like a self-styled mark, like a tattoo rather than a mutilation, the sheen of skin wet with perspiration blurring the sharper edges. To have it displayed for all to see made Bruce uncomfortable, as if a secret between two had been suddenly shared with all the world, with a guy who had a hand at Clark's waist, his stomach, who touched his arm, his backside, his hip, trying to prevent Clark from posting up as they jockeyed hard against each other for position.

Bruce couldn't have said, in that incandescent moment that sent the blood rushing to his head, what it was about the scene that bothered him so much, except he had _endured such an awful day, all to be with Clark,_ and the sight of someone else touching him, of Clark enjoying himself without him by his side sent his thoughts spiraling down into the dark pits that always lay in wait. He was changing his whole life, everything he thought he wanted, all because _now_ he wanted Clark. Would every minute he was unable to spend with Clark end up filled with countless _others,_ all wanting Clark's attention, wanting _him,_ as much as Bruce wanted—

It was so easy to see that Clark was unique, but that special glow that lit his face, that had him smiling and his eyes dancing, his inner radiance that was eager and happy now instead of bitter and angry—that all belonged to Bruce, a result of the things they had done together, _the moments only the two of them had shared_. Strangers shouldn't be allowed to touch what they could never understand—

But what if that guy who was so free with his hands— _touching Clark_ —wasn't a stranger at all? What if—

Bruce was on the court, jerking the guy back and away from Clark with a rough hand to the arm. The guy stumbled. Clark caught hold of the basketball, resting it at his hip and studying Bruce curiously, eyebrows drawn together.

"What the—"

"Don't," Bruce warned the guy. "Leave. Now."

The guy looked between him and Clark, waited for Clark to nod before slowly making his way off the court with a disgusted snort. He stood by the benches, toweling off and watching. His presence on the periphery only made Bruce angrier.

"What's wrong, angel?" Clark asked, pulling a small towel from where it hung from his back pocket and wiping his face. "Bad day?"

"I don't want to see you with anyone else, Clark. I can't—"

"We were only playing a game."

"Everything's a game to you," Bruce said, bitterly.

Clark shook his head, put an arm around Bruce's shoulders and turned him in the direction of the guy who was still watching them but trying not to make it obvious.

"Look at him," Clark said. "Look. What do you see?"

Bruce shrugged.

"You know what I see? I see a guy with brown hair who can shoot a basketball."

Now he turned Bruce so they were looking at each other.

"Know what I see when I look at you? I see everything that matters to me. I see your face next to mine, the way it looks when I open my eyes in the morning." He grinned. "I see the top of your head as you're blowing me in a movie theater." His grin changed into a fond smile. "I see someone who knows me, belongs to me." Clark backed away, started bouncing the basketball.

"You have to trust me. Stop tripping off the unimportant stuff. Why would I want _him_ when I have _you?"_ Clark feinted left, and then right, dribbling. "I do have you, right, angel?"

Bruce nodded his head.

Clark's smile was like the sun. "Then let's play. I was saving all my best moves for you…"

+

 _The next evening…in a popular after-work restaurant…in downtown Metropolis…_

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Bruce asked again. They stood by the pay phones, in sight of the bar, watching their mark drink and chat with a girlfriend. Her briefcase sat on the floor by her barstool, and Bruce couldn't see any way to get that briefcase without her or her friend noticing. It was clearly impossible, even with the distraction he was supposed to provide. Clark's calm certainty he could snatch the briefcase, rifle through its contents for the information they needed, _and return the briefcase before anyone noticed_ was lunacy.

Clark leaned in, the shadows from his position between the wall and the phone casting half his face in darkness. "Why wouldn't it?"

"How are you going to—"

"Don't worry about it, angel. I have my part covered. You just worry about your part of the plan."

Bruce bit his lip. "If you get caught, Clark—"

Clark leaned closer and kissed him silent. "I won't get caught. God, you always taste so good. Go. You're distracting me."

He raised an eyebrow. Moved a hand from stomach to waist and around to cup Clark's ass. "We could always—"

"Later." Clark kissed him again, regretfully. "We need this information." He pulled away.

"The offer is time limited," Bruce grumbled.

"How can there be a time limit on access to my own piece of ass?" Clark laughed. "Besides, you have absolutely no self control. All I'd have to do is—"

Bruce batted hands away. "I thought we had to go."

"Go ahead then. I'll be right behind you."

Bruce walked over to the bar, took up an open space next to the two women. He ordered a large draft, paid the bartender and left a generous tip on the counter. Then he spun away from the counter too quickly, drink in hand, and collided with a guy walking past. He made sure his beer ended up all over himself and the women.

Much confusion, many apologies, a request for seltzer water from the bartender and a mass exodus by all of them to the bathrooms. Bruce didn't see Clark anywhere, and the woman walked away with her briefcase firmly in her clutches, but it was too late for him to do anything other than stick to the plan. When Bruce entered the men's room he found Clark in there waiting.

"Did you get it?"

"Friday morning. Two a.m."

That gave them two days to prepare.

"I didn't see you. How—?"

"You weren't supposed to see me," Clark said, with a long suffering sigh as he walked over to a urinal and unzipped his jeans. "Edge wanted _me_ to do this for a reason."

Bruce nodded his head, stuck his hands in his pockets, waiting for Clark to finish. He couldn't say he was comfortable with any of this. He couldn't say he understood _anything_ —but every small thing accomplished moved them closer to the day when they could leave it all behind. The academy, Morgan Edge, the problems, the lifestyle—soon it would all be just an amusing memory. That he and Clark had a future together was the only thing he knew for certain—the only thing he needed to know; their future was all that mattered.

Lost in his thoughts, Bruce didn't realize Clark had finished up until hands had him by the shoulders, walking him backwards towards an open stall. Fingers worked the front of his pants open, a foot kicked the door closed, trapping the two of them in a four by eight rectangle of space…in a public bathroom.

Bruce groaned into Clark's mouth as fingers brushed his growing erection, as a hand captured him and pulled his cock free of his pants.

"Clark—someone's going to—"

Clark shifted him bodily, so his back was against the door, pinned him there with one hand and crouched down. With a quick movement, Clark had his cock down his amazing throat.

Bruce drew breath in sharply, caught hold of Clark's hair when his knees threatened to buckle. Grounded himself against the quickly flowing rush of sensations by pulling hard.

"We could go home and do this—" he gasped.

Clark looked up at him, grinned as he allowed his cock to fall away from his mouth and started working it with a hand. "Want you now…and when we get home."

 _"Clark—"_

But there was no reasoning with him, and after five seconds of Clark's attentions, he no longer wanted to. The only thing he wanted was _more,_ more of the lightning through his body, more of the thunder in his head. He wanted the explosion that ripped through him and into Clark's mouth to never end.

It was only after he came down from the heights that he realized they were no longer alone. In the bathroom. Clark's eyes were laughing as he straightened up, as Bruce closed his own eyes, appalled. He could hear hurried movement, and could only imagine that there was some guy out there trying to finish his business before the perverts in the stall started doing _anything else._ The thought must have been clear on his face because Clark was moving, turning him to face the door, working his pants down around his thighs.

 _"Clark!"_ Bruce whispered furiously, looking over his shoulder. Clark had him pressed to the cool metal of the door; it was impossible to get leverage to move—he was so _strong._ _"Stop it—"_

Clark grinned into his neck. Whispered in his ear. _"Shh…he'll hear you."_

Bruce stopped struggling, quieted. Closed his eyes at the feel of Clark against him, of hardness pressing in and out of the small space between his legs, up and between cheeks. Caught his breath as Clark grinded slowly into him, shuddered every time rough denim scored the skin of his backside. Tried to keep from making any sound— _but it was so obvious what they were doing._ Heard the door to the bathroom open and close, felt Clark groan into his hair, knew he was close—

Turned in Clark's arms and sank down, capturing Clark's cock in his mouth, and letting him spend himself there.

It took three minutes before either of them could gather themselves enough to exit the stall and straighten their clothes.

"The apartment is fifteen minutes away," Bruce breathed, voice spent. "We could have waited—"

"Maybe _you_ could have waited," Clark said over his shoulder as he washed his hands in the sink. "But you're like air to me, angel. I can't wait, can't get enough. I need you all of the time…"

And _just like that,_ even the craziest things made sense.

Bruce smiled, shook his head.

"Besides," Clark grinned, "what a _rush."_

+

 _The next night…on the streets of Metropolis…_

"Where are we going?" Bruce yelled over the rush of the wind whipping against his face, over the roar of the motorcycle as they raced down the streets of Metropolis at speed.

Clark turned his head, laughing. "It's a surprise, angel," he shouted, and the wind carried his words away. "Just wait—"

Bruce tightened his arms around Clark, closed his eyes so the sense of danger, of spiraling vertigo was heightened, allowed himself to simply feel the intensity—the thrill of speed, the dangerous dance, the rush of getting away with things he'd never thought to try.

Of being with Clark and fighting his first mad bout with lust. And love. Especially love.

Tomorrow night. One job for Edge. Two more weeks at the academy, and then they were free.

Clark slowed, turned the motorcycle onto a street that Bruce did not recognized. The streets got darker and seedier as they cruised deeper into the area of Metropolis known as Suicide Slums.

They pulled into an alley. Bruce dismounted, smelled the oppressive odor of urine, looked around at the trash-strewn sidewalks. "Okay, is this your idea of a date?"

"I owe you a date," Clark said, walking backwards down the street, pulling Bruce along. "I'll take you somewhere special, someplace you'll never forget, but tonight we're just out to have _fun."_

The alleyway was dark. Small animals scurried in the corners, under and around overflowing garbage bins. Bruce shuddered. _"Fun_ …right."

"Don't let the area fool you," Clark said, laughing. "If you don't have the time of your life tonight, I'll let you fuck me any time, any place, for the next two weeks."

"Like you wouldn't anyway!"

"Yeah, but if you win I'd be your sex _slave…"_

Bruce leered. "Oh, in that case, lead the way."

Clark approached a gray door with a small metal grate at eye level that slid open when he knocked. Clark leaned in, exchanged words with the watchman, and waited until the door swung open.

They walked into a darkened hallway and through to another world.

It was a fight club. Bruce recognized the trappings but—of course—he'd never before been in one. They were highly illegal and the operators often relocated at the first sign of trouble. Gambling, kidnapping, assault, violent death, slavery—a person Clark's age shouldn't even know of the _existence_ of such a place, let alone how to get inside. The club was the size of a large hockey rink, and was mostly filled with men, shouting loudly at the spectacle taking place in the middle of the makeshift arena: two women—fighting naked on a plastic carpet laced with mud.

Bruce pulled at Clark's arm, trying to stop his forward progress down the aisle of stadium-style seating and to ringside.

"Clark, what are we doing here? I don't think—"

Clark turned, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Don't flake out on me now, angel. You spend every day training to fight fake matches against people who aren't even in your league—and for what? You'll have a great time tonight. Remember the fight at the races?"

"Yes—"

"This won't be half as deep as that, and a heck of a lot more fun. Trust me."

Bruce sighed. "Fine, but—"

"Come on."

And Clark was off, weaving through the crowd. Bruce had no choice but to follow.

The announcer was calling the next fight on the microphone in the middle of the ring, asking for _challengers to face off against the club's best and win a share of the prize money!_

Before Bruce could say… _anything,_ Clark was under the rope and in the middle of the ring, talking in low tones with the announcer and pointing in Bruce's direction.

"Gentlemen, we have a special spectacle tonight! A team-up—two of our city's finest young fighters against the cream of the club's fighting corps! Two on two, mano y mano against mano y mano! Place your bets! _And let's get ready to rumble!"_

The arena went dark. Music blared, loud and aggressive. Red and blue strobe lights started pulsing to the sound of an alarm ringing. Clark was waving at him to get in the ring. With a heightened sense of the surreal, Bruce did so.

 _"Gentlemen, I give you the Dynamic Duo against…the Terminators!"_

Bruce backed over to where Clark was standing as two…mountains entered the ring. Rejects from some sort of wrestler's club no doubt, with the leather gear and face masks and the silver knuckles on each hand. They looked…ridiculous. He glanced at Clark sourly. "Tell me again how you think this is going to be fun—"

"Don't worry, angel," Clark said, grinning maniacally. "I'll protect you."

"Gee, I feel so much better now, Clark."

"Just don't let anyone hit you in that pretty face."

One of the mountains let out a roar and came running across the ring, straight at Bruce. Bruce scowled at Clark, turned and laid the guy flat on his back with a roundhouse kick to the head.

"You better watch your own face, pretty boy. I can take care of myself." Bruce glanced over at the second mountain of a man who was now eyeing them cautiously. "And stop grinning like a fool, Clark. This is not funny. You are so dead when we get home. What the hell were you thinking…?"

"Watch it—"

"I see him, fool," Bruce said, laying the second guy out with even less effort than he had the first. The crowd went crazy, and Clark was grinning at him like he was just so _proud._

Bruce sighed. Okay, he had to admit, this was… sort of fun. He watched as the announcer introduced the next two clowns. They looked like they might have a brain between them.

"You think we can take them?"

"I know we can."

—and the battle was on.

Eight matches later, the Dynamic Duo were the undisputed champions of the club.

"Are you okay?"

Bruce batted Clark's hands away. "Of course, I'm okay. Stop trying to baby me—"

"I'm not!"

"Then what was that?" Bruce pointed back at the ring.

"I—"

"I might not have grown up on a farm bench pressing tractors but I'm a sixth degree black belt—"

"I know. I just—"

"I was perfectly capable of taking care of my guy. I didn't need you butting in—"

"I was just—"

"Next time, don't," Bruce growled. "You take care of _your_ guy, you let me take care of _my_ guy. Are we clear, Clark?"

Clark ducked his head, face sulky. "Fine. I was just trying to help."

"Go get your money," Bruce said, letting up. He was bloody and bruised and dead tired. "I'll wait here."

"Our money." Clark beamed.

"Right." Bruce fell into a seat, vaguely wondering how Clark could have the energy left to smile and why grime and blood seemed to have somehow avoided his skin. "Go…and hurry up."

Bruce kept his head down, studiously ignoring the men trying to catch his eye to congratulate him on his performance. He had to admit, he'd had a great time, fighting side-by-side with Clark. They made an outstanding team, were able to anticipate each other's moves like they had some sort of telepathy, and Clark's brute strength was phenomenal. He was going to insist Clark start training when they arrived abroad. That much raw talent shouldn't be allowed to go to waste.

There was a ruckus in the general area of the back of the club. Bruce lifted his head, looking over with his face a mask of concern. People startled up from their seats and moved in a wave towards the exit. Bruce glanced around quickly for Clark as a bullhorn announced, "This is the police. Stay where you are. You are all under arrest…"

+

 _The next morning…inside of the Forty-Second Police Precinct…_

Harvey forked over the cash and signed where instructed, flashing a smile at the pretty police woman who was processing Bruce's paperwork, thinking it would probably do little good but it certainly couldn't hurt. The woman stared at him dispassionately.

"Take a seat, Mr. Dent. Your party will be released shortly."

Three hours later, Harvey had to seriously question the police department's definition of _shortly._

Finally, though, Bruce was escorted into the waiting area. He looked…worse than Harvey could have even imagined, like he'd gone ten rounds in the boxing ring.

"Hey, Harvey," Bruce acknowledged quietly, as he signed for his personal belongings.

"I—" Harvey stopped.

Bruce glanced at him as he pocketed his wallet and fastened his watch around his wrist. "Don't start, Harv. I'm tired."

"What— _happened?"_

Harvey listened in mute astonishment as Bruce explained that he had been arrested in an illegal fight club. He could tell his friend was holding back tons of information— _like when and how the hell he'd gotten the shit beat out of him_ —but Bruce seemed afflicted with some sort of preternatural calm, or maybe it was just bone weariness. He sat in the car with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Harvey didn't have the heart to grill him. He couldn't kick his best friend while he was down.

"Where's Clark?"

"I don't—know."

"He wasn't arrested?"

Bruce shook his head.

"But he was with you?" A nod, eyes still closed.

"He left you there and took off? And you ended up arrested and he got off Scott free?"

A head turned in his direction, blue eyes, sharp as stars, locked on his face. "I'm glad Clark got out of there," Bruce said. "I would never want him to go through this. If he had been arrested, it would have been a disaster."

 _And this isn't a disaster?_ Harvey wondered silently. Who cared more for some juvenile delinquent than they cared for themselves? How was Bruce supposed to go to law school with an arrest record? Harvey shook his head. Clearly, common sense no longer applied to this situation. The deteriorating reality of Bruce's current circumstances obviously mattered to his friend not at all. Perhaps all that mattered to Bruce was what he _wanted._ Perhaps all that was real to him was what his heart wanted passionately, whether it was right or wrong. _Perhaps._

+

The apartment was darkened when Bruce opened the door, and his stomach sank with the expectation of having to spend the entire evening worrying about Clark when he was so tired and simply wanted to rest in the arms of the person he loved, but just as he stepped out of his shoes, he noticed movement in the armchair on the other side of the main room, where shadows of a declining sun pooled and shifted.

"Clark?"

Clark hadn't changed clothes, clearly hadn't even washed up. He looked like he'd been sitting in that chair since he left the fight club.

"Clark…?"

"I'm ruining your life."

Bruce sank down on the edge of the sofa. "What?"

"I'm making a mess of your life. Because of me—"

"No, Clark. You're the best part of my life."

Clark shook his head. "I'm not good enough for you. I have nothing—I can't _protect_ you, not like this."

"Protect me? I don't need you to protect me. And what do you mean you're not good enough for me?"

"Who did you call to get you out?"

Bruce was silent for a moment, studying Clark's face, trying to figure out what he was thinking, why he was acting this way, what he was about to _do._ The room was so still. He felt as if Clark had them poised on the edge of a cliff, and anything he said could send them spiraling into the abyss. "Harvey."

"You were in trouble, because of _me,_ and you had to call _him_ for help. I had to sit here, waiting, hoping you'd be okay, not able to do _anything._ Tell me I deserve you."

"Clark—"

"Tell me I love you, like this."

Bruce froze. "What exactly are you trying to say, Clark?"

The ring. Clark was twisting it, turning it on his finger, as if he wanted to pull it off, _but couldn't pull it off._ Somehow, the anxious movement matched the twisted, tortured expression on his face.

"Does this look like love to you, Bruce?"

 _"What are you saying?"_

Clark exploded up from his seat. "I'm saying I don't deserve you! I'm saying I don't want you hurt _because of me!_ I'm saying if I loved you, _I would walk out that door and never come back!"_

Bruce got to his feet, pushed Clark in the chest once, twice, knocking him backwards, yelling, "And I'm saying _you don't get to leave._ If you do, you had better not come back, Clark. _Not ever._ I'll never forgive you if you leave now—not after all this, not after—"

Hands to his head, Bruce sank back down onto the sofa. He was tired, too tired to argue. "Clark, I—" he looked up at his whole world, at everything he never knew he wanted, standing over him. "I don't know if this looks like love," he said tiredly. "All I know is that it feels like it."

He leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes. "I can only tell you what I feel."

Then Clark was there, next to him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Bruce felt the accumulated tension of hours of endless worrying leave his body, like smoke on the wind.

"I'm sorry," Clark whispered, kissing his lips, his face. "I didn't mean—"

"Don't apologize. I made a decision to stay in that place. I knew the risk. I could have left at any time. It ended up being a bad decision, but it was one I made. I had fun, and the consequences are what they are. It's not your fault—"

"Still—"

"And something good could have come out of it." Bruce smiled wryly. "I doubt I'll need to wait two weeks for graduation now."

Clark groaned. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't be. It doesn't matter. We just need to stick to the plan. Tomorrow night we take care of Edge. If they kick me out of the academy we can be out of Metropolis by the weekend."

"By the weekend," Clark repeated slowly, hand touching Bruce's face. "After all this, you still want me with you."

"I still want you with me, Clark. You belong nowhere else."

"Why is it so easy to love you?" Clark said, between kisses.

"Did you just call me easy?"

Clark raised an eyebrow "Well, you are kinda—"

Bruce pushed him away, laughing. "Come on. I need a shower. You wouldn't believe how disgusting those holding cells are…and the people, Clark, the people are simply awful…"

+

How do you learn the right way to worship the only one worthy of worship?

"Tell me how this feels," Clark said into the dancing darkness broken by candlelight. He placed one toe in his mouth, sucked gently.

"It tickles, but it feels good."

"And this?" He ran his tongue across the pad of a foot, and Bruce shivered.

"Even better."

An ankle, the smooth juncture at the back of the knee, the fleshy part of the waist, an elbow, an inner thigh.

"Tell me how this feels."

"Perfect, Clark… _oh_ …perfect."

How to map the incoherencies of physical sensation, to learn the right way to please the one so worthy of pleasure?

An ice cube outlining taut stomach muscles, a tongue to lap up the moisture.

"Tell me…"

 _"It feels like heaven."_

"Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me how you like it. _Show me how to make you happy. All I want is to make you happy…"_

Clark followed every instruction. He was tireless, unstinting, unconcerned with his own needs, focused solely on his partner. When Bruce asked him to turn on his side and entered his body, the arms wrapped around him seemed like his own arms, the hand splayed across his chest felt like his own hand. When Bruce fell asleep still deeply rooted, it was as if they shared the same body and had one heart that beat for them both.


	20. Like A Rock Into the Grave

**XIX. Like A Rock Into the Grave**

_But you will fall with me like a rock into the grave:_   
_thanks to our love, which will never waste away,_   
_the earth will continue to live._

+

_The next night…_

It was the memory of what it felt like to be Clark Kent that was turning his stomach as he stood next to Bruce in the shadows, he realized. To once again be filled with that sixth sense of dread telling him that this time with Bruce was too easy. Telling him that this perfect pattern could not hold, and the only thing guaranteed in his life was that things would change.

Where was the fun in any of this when all he could do was worry?

"Are you ready?"

"I'm ready," Bruce groused, obviously still unhappy about the division of duties for this particular heist. "My part is easy. The question is: _are you ready?"_ He closed the visor on his helmet with a snap of plastic against plastic.

Clark studied him—black t-shirt, black leather jacket, jeans. They had covered the motorcycle's distinctive red detailing with electrical tape and pocketed the small license plate. Bruce was going to provide the distraction Clark needed to get inside the hanger bay and the grounded Learjet, duplicate the encryption key and exit the facility without being seen or using his more destructive powers. The value in the information he was collecting for Edge lay in Bruno Mannheim not realizing his system had been compromised. Bruce was to bust through the front gate on the bike, lead security on a chase, and ride off into the night.

Theoretically, the guards should end up thinking it was a prank pulled by local teens. Theoretically, Bruce shouldn't be in any danger.

Theoretically.

Clark reached out, grabbed hold of the front of Bruce's jacket. Over his shoulder, the moon was white and slivered, grinning like it was mocking them from a safe distance. This was their plan, but Clark wasn't sure if he still thought it was a good one. Anything could happen, _anything,_ and that very uncertainty had him on edge.

"Clark?" Bruce raised the visor, studying him with concern. "Are you okay?"

Stupid helmet. If there was a way Clark could have kissed Bruce at that moment, he would have. He had to settle for resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning in, inhaling the unique scent of him.

"I'm fine, angel. Just—be careful. Go quickly, through and then out. I'm very fast—I don't need much time on my end. Just minutes. Do you understand?"

"We went over this—"

"I need to know that you understand. Nothing is as important as you getting out of there. _Nothing._ If anything goes wrong—if they start shooting, or… _anything_ —I want you to leave. Forget about me and go. I can take care of myself."

"Clark—"

 _No_ —he shook his head, shook Bruce a little, too. "We can forget about this right now—"

Stubborn silence, but then Bruce capitulated. "Fine," he said, with a frown.

"Promise me."

Bruce looked like he wanted to argue. "I promise," he grumbled, finally. "Let's just get this over with."

Reluctantly, Clark stepped back.

"You be careful, too," Bruce said. "Don't—make me regret this. I'll see you back at the apartment." He closed the visor.

The bike roared to life, and he was off.

+

Bruce refused to think beyond the confines of the living room as he waited. Did not allow himself to speculate on an entire future held in abeyance. Time, although it passed in dark shadows across his face as he paced the floor, had ceased for him. His heart beat preternaturally— _so slowly_ —clenched within a cold fist of dread. _What was this feeling—this hollowed out feeling that exceeds time and place?_ It was only the sound of a key in the lock that broke the spell. The sight of Clark standing in the doorway, prize in hand—

Then he knew. It was the power Clark had over him, this most desperate love, wrapped around his heart, pressing against the inner cavity of his chest. Bruce was across the room, hands to Clark's shoulders, pushing his jacket off, his t-shirt up and over his head, working his belt buckle open. Pausing, with fingers on his zipper, exulting in the fact that Clark was rock hard for him already— _at just the barest touch of his fingertips_ —the power, the proof.

They had made it through—both of them.

Now, Clark buried hands in his hair, jerking him off balance so their mouths could fall together. Frantic, stumbling across the room, losing clothes to the gathering storm, the thunder, the lightning. Desperately, Bruce thought _bedroom,_ but Clark had other ideas and maneuvered them towards the balcony and out under the night sky canopy, into the warm summer air that kissed his skin as Clark kissed his lips.

Up against the stone balustrade, perched on the ledge, his cock in Clark's mouth and only hands, the strength of those large hands cupping his backside, kept him from falling. Bruce leaned back, felt the pull from end to end—of gravity, of heaven spreading between his thighs—risked it all on Clark's ability to hold him, on hands and arms that made their way up to the middle of his back, to brace him against his own madness as he exploded, murmuring Clark's name like a prayer.

Later, after they had managed to do everything that was practical, if not sane, on a penthouse balcony _at least once,_ Bruce relaxed in Clark's arms in a lounge chair, settled between long legs and propped up against him, watching the sun peak over the horizon. It was a new day, _their day,_ and Bruce was content that they had decided to witness it together, even though his eyelids were drooping and the feel of Clark's heart beating was like a pleasant vibration running through him, lulling him to sleep.

"Are you going over to the academy?" Clark asked, voice quiet against his ear.

Bruce nodded. "To ring out. Pick up my things." His eyes closed entirely. "I doubt it'll take long. I can't imagine—" A soft sigh. "There shouldn't be much left to say." Arms tightened around him. His head fell to the side. "I want to get there early," he mumbled. "To avoid a scene…"

Then a gathering, and a vertiginous shift.

"Clark—put me down—" But he kept his eyes closed, and let his head settle at the juncture of Clark's neck and shoulder, let his lips rest against skin.

He was tucked into bed, and Clark laid down on his right side, _where he belonged,_ pulling him to sprawl across his chest. Lightly stroking skin, fingers in his hair, whispering promises and endearments in his ear like the notes to a perfect song that started with _I love you_ and ended the same way. Bruce glanced at the clock before he gave himself up completely. _Two hours._ That was all the sleep he could afford. He would be bone tired, but it hardly mattered. He could sleep later, on the flight to Gotham.

+

Clark nodded as he walked past Lou and into the bustling warehouse. He was used to meeting Edge on late nights, and it was rather surprising to see the facility operating as a legit business, with bright morning sunshine pouring in through the oblong windows in the rafters. He took mental notes, as was his habit whenever he had the chance to scope out a new aspect of Edge's operation—not that he needed to know anything more about Intergang. His association with the criminal syndicate in Metropolis was over. He had called Edge with the news of his successful completion of his last heist. The man was waiting for him to make the exchange.

Checking his watch, Clark hurried his steps. He cared not at all about keeping Edge waiting, but Bruce had mentioned he'd likely be back at the apartment before twelve. He figured the angel would be upset about the academy, even though he was too stubborn to admit it, and the least he could do was be there when Bruce got home. After all, it was his fault—

The goon with the long, dirty blond hair and the ridiculous black cross tattooed across half his face was guarding the door to the office. When he caught sight of Clark he straightened and scowled, twisting his face into something Clark figured was supposed to scare him.

"Move," Clark said, voice bored but brooking no argument.

"You need someone to knock that chip off your shoulder, kid," the guy said, stepping forward.

An eyebrow swept upwards. A dubious tilt to the head. "I think _you_ need to get out of my way." Clark grabbed him by the front of his shirt and threw him to the right. He didn't bother to look where he landed. The sound of crates crashing and falling was verification enough that the guy had impacted…something that broke his fall. More or less.

Chuckling low, Clark pushed the door open. He had never liked that guy anyway. His name was Sean, and he had been one of the guys who had broken into Clark's apartment, the one who had hit Bruce and pulled a gun on him.

"Kal—" Edge said, rising from his seat behind his mahogany desk. He glanced at the door. "What did you do to Sean?"

Clark shrugged. "I don't like him."

"Yes, well, you can't keep getting into these altercations with my boys. It'll make you very unpopular—"

"It won't really matter, will it?" Clark said, reaching into the breast pocket of his leather jacket. "You won't have to worry about me after this."

Greedy eyes locked on the disk he held up for inspection.

Edge leaned forward, fingertips resting on the desktop. The tension in the room had thickened, palpable enough to cut with a knife. Clark noticed Edge's two bodyguards place hands on their holsters, as if they were expecting any wild thing to happen at any moment.

"Is that the key?"

Clark blew air out of his nose, disgusted. Criminals were so stupid. Were they all this stupid? "No, it's a blank disk. I thought I'd just stop by for a visit." Clark shook his head. "Of course, it is."

Green eyes glinted at him, like the old man was amused. "Kal," he breathed, "I don't know how you do what you do but if you pulled this off—"

"Am I speaking Greek?" Clark shook the disk in the air, the plastic case rattling. "Right here. Now can we get this over with?"

Edge motioned to one of his guards. "Of course. Follow me."

Clark allowed Edge to lead him from the front office and into an office suite that was situated through a side door, where, obviously, business of a different caliber was conducted. Inside, there was another desk and a round conference table, computer screens and monitors displaying various angles around the interior and exterior of the building. A quick scan with his x-ray vision noted a safe in the back wall, underneath a painting of racehorses exiting a starting gate.

Edge moved over to the desk. There were two laptops set up. He sat down in a chair and motioned for Clark to do the same across from him. The two bodyguards took up positions on his left and right, as if they had any ability to interfere with anything Clark chose to do. Clark ignored them. Edge turned one laptop so he could see the screen.

Numbers. A banking transaction.

"Five million dollars, Kal," Edge said, motioning at the display. "Once I verify the disk, all I have to do is enter my password and press a button, and it's yours. Give the disk to Marty."

Clark smirked, stared hard at Edge, warning him with the daggers of his eyes not to try any double cross. He passed over the disk. Marty opened the plastic case, inspected the shiny silver device, and inserted it into the other laptop. Two minutes went by in tense silence.

"This is it," Marty announced, grudging respect coloring his tone. "I don't know how he did it—"

Edge smiled slow. "Perfect. Kal—do you see this number? It's your account number. Can you remember it?"

Clark nodded.

"Of course you can." Edge turned the laptop and typed in a few numbers, then he turned it back towards Clark. "Select a password, long enough for no one to be able to crack, but something you'll remember." Clark did so, selecting a code that would be impossible for anyone other than himself to remember off the top of their head.

"Now you verify," Edge said, pushing the phone in his direction, and Clark realized that the old mobster was actually having fun teaching him the ropes. Edge explained the bank protocol and the access procedure via number and passcode—and Clark supposed it was all very interesting, but he couldn't care less about the money. He simply wanted to finish this transaction. The only thing he wanted was his new identity that would allow him to travel outside of the country with Bruce.

"Now you're a player," Edge announced, smiling. "A kid with your talents should know how the system works."

"Right," Clark said, letting the boredom and disdain drip from his tone. "Where's the rest of it?"

Edge pursed his lips, reached a hand out to an innocuous yellow envelope laying flat on the desk and tapped on it for a moment. Then he quickly palmed and opened it, spilling the contents out. Clark reached out a hand and grasped the blue passport.

"Kal Wayne?"

"Somewhat _apropos,_ don't you think?"

Kal _Wayne._

Before he could process his new identity, the guard to his right snatched the passport out of his hand and passed it, and the other papers, back over to Edge. Inside the yellow envelope and into the desk drawer went his future.

Clark scowled. "What are you doing?"

"Holding on to those things for you." Again with the tapping of the fingers, green eyes that glittered dangerously behind wire-rimmed glassed. "The money, the documents—I wanted to show you that I have every intention of honoring our original agreement—"

"But?"

"But I need you to do one more job for me."

Clark's hands tightened into fists. "That wasn't our deal."

Edge shrugged. "Things change. Now that I know exactly what you can do— _the impossible_ —I can't afford to let you go… _just yet."_

Clark got to his feet. "No—" He wasn't doing another job. He was leaving Metropolis. With Bruce. _Today._

"Think about this, Kal. Another five million dollars, enough to set you up for life—"

 _"No—"_ Clark yelled, seeing red. _"That wasn't our agreement."_

Energy ripped through the floor, sending everyone except Clark sprawling. In the mayhem and the destruction, through the dust and the shouting, he used his super speed to retrieve his papers, his new identity— _his future._ The life he was promised, that some stupid clown of a gangster thought he could play with.

He was gone from that place _with what belonged to him_ in a blink of an eye.

+

One of his bodyguards helped Morgan Edge to his feet. As soon as he was upright he shook the hands from his person, and walked over to his desk. It was overturned, computers, phone on the floor in pieces. It took only a second for him to kneel in the rubble and verify that the yellow envelope containing the identity papers for _Kal Wayne_ was gone.

He straightened up, incredulous. "Find me a cell phone," he ordered.

Kal was just a kid—no matter how amazing his abilities. There was no defying Morgan Edge, no person in Metropolis who could thwart his will. His organization worked according to certain rules—rules the kid had obviously not grasped in their short association. There was no way _out,_ there was only the deep, _and the even deeper._

Kal would learn. They all did, sooner or later.

A phone was pressed into his hand. He dialed a number.

"Pick up the Wayne kid," he said, when a voice on the other end answered. _"Right now."_

Kal would learn an important lesson today: _never show your hand._ And another: _every man, even a **super** man, has a weakness._

+

A black thundercloud of worry and desperation hung low over his head, ready to rain all over him—but he had no time to berate himself over every mistake he had just made. He had to find Bruce. The two of them needed to get out of town. _Right now._

Clark opened the apartment door.

"Bruce?" he called out, glancing at the clock on the wall and verifying that it was after twelve.

Nothing. _No one._ The apartment was quiet and as empty as—

_No time._

A blur of motion, and in minutes, he was standing outside of the front gates to the police academy.

Clark went up to the officer manning the guard post, checking cars onto the grounds. "Hey, hi," Clark said. "I'm looking for Bruce Wayne—it's an emergency."

The officer looked him over. "Cadet Wayne? You just missed him. He left about ten minutes ago."

"Did you see which way—"

"Actually, he got into a car—hey—"

But Clark was gone, and back across the city, to the docks. He stopped in the shadows of the warehouse he had escaped from less than an hour previous, heart beating a staccato rhythm in his chest. He had to bend over to settle a stomach that lurched and sank and flipped over at every wild thought that went through his head. _Bruce._ When he straightened, it was with the resolve of a blazing anger. If they hurt him, _if they touched him—_

He would bring the world down around their shoulders.

Super speed and x-ray vision verified that Bruce wasn't in the building. Neither was Edge, and a confrontation with anyone else was pointless. Clark sped everywhere, to every hideout, every Intergang facility, every club and illegal joint he had learned of over the months. He was the wind, searching, but every place he stopped was a dead end. Hours he spent looking, but as the sun sank below the horizon, Clark had to admit he had come to the end of what he knew to do.

_He was sick with not knowing what to do._

Once again, he tried expanding his hearing, his senses, looking for that telltale heartbeat, the one he knew better than his own. _Nothing._

 _How had he screwed this all up?_ All of the madness—it was supposed to be over. Bruce was supposed to be safe. He had promised to take care of him—

_Promised._

Clark's eyes smarted, and he closed them. _There was no time for this._ If he couldn't just find Bruce and take him away, he'd have to go through Edge's people, guy by guy, until he found someone with knowledge. That could take hours, _days,_ and the mayhem might cause Edge to do something stupid— _if he hadn't already done something stupid._

Clark—didn't know what he'd do if this wasn't just a play for leverage, and was actually payback. Bruce could be dead already.

"No."

_No._

There had to be something—

His phone rang. In his pocket. Quickly, Clark pulled it out, put it to his ear.

A voice, familiar, despised. "Missing your _angel_ yet, Kal?"

Calm settled over him, smothered his anger, thick like cotton. "I will kill you if you hurt him." A statement of fact.

"Settle down, son. Your friend is our guest. I simply needed to get your attention. I take it I have it?"

"Where is he?"

"You know the parking structure on Fifth and Vine? Take the elevator to the bottom level. Walk towards the southeast wall. You'll find a door to a staircase leading underground. The code for the door is 1612—"

Clark was there, and through the door, and down the stairs to a compound deep under the sewers of Metropolis. He had Edge by the throat before the man could take his next breath, the comforting sound of Bruce's heartbeat in his ears. Clark turned his head to scan the room and located Bruce tied to a chair, bleeding from the head. He was unconscious, and the blood was worrisome, but otherwise—

"You made a mistake, Edge, using him to get to me." Clark squeezed.

Edge's face was turning red, and two bodyguards tried to pull him off. Clark used one hand to send them both flying.

"Kal—" Edge sputtered. "You need me. He'll die without—"

Clark let him go. Feet hit the ground, and the old gangster started coughing, violently.

"What are you talking about?" _Enough with the games,_ he wanted to shout. He was taking Bruce away, away from Metropolis, out of the country where he would be safe, where no one could ever touch him. The only issue was Morgan Edge— _dead or alive._

But the man was still talking, posturing, and he had a wickedly amused gleam in his eyes, a smirk on his face that said he still had cards to play.

 _Dead, then._ Clark reached for him, wanted to kill him with his own two hands for the blood on Bruce's face.

Edge backed away, a cautionary hand raised. "Do you think I'm stupid, kid? I've seen what you can do. You can work your magic act and kill us all, spirit him away, but he'll be dead in 24 hours—"

This time, Clark smashed him into a wall, forearm to his throat. _"What are you talking about?"_

"A toxin," Edge gasped. "If he doesn't get the antidote he'll die. And trust me—there's no place you can take him that will be able to keep him alive, figure out what I've given him and work out an antidote, not in the time he has—"

Was he telling the truth? Desperately, Clark turned his head, threw all of his senses in Bruce's direction, trying to determine if his unconsciousness was unnatural, if Edge was bluffing—if he could afford to take the chance. All he could determine from this distance was that Bruce's heartbeat was racing, fluttering strangely.

Clark turned back to Edge, pushed his forearm into his throat. "I could kill you—"

_"You'd be killing him, too."_

Clark dropped him, spun away.

"Think Kal—" Edge said, coming up behind him. "Wouldn't it be easier to give me what I want? One more job and this is all over. Are you willing to risk his life on your ability to find someone to help him? What I gave him—it's not in any medical book—"

Clark turned on him. _"What do you want from me?"_

Edge straightened his jacket, his tie. "Just one more job."

What were his options? Surely, Bruce would have had a plan by now. This whole situation was a result of Clark flaunting his powers—he realized that. It was all his fault, but there had to be a way to fix it. He still had the power. Mind racing, Clark went over everything he had ever done in front of Edge, or where any of his minions could have made an observation. The man knew about his speed, his strength…Clark had shown him something of his heat vision. But Edge knew little about his invulnerability, his x-ray vision, his hearing. He still had those advantages.

But anything he could do now held an unacceptable amount of risk.

Fists tight at his side, Clark spun away, stalked over to Bruce, fell to his knees by the side of the metal chair. With a hand, he had the ropes that bound him broken and tossed aside. Gently, he smoothed bloody strands of hair back from his face.

"Get me a bandage," he said, not caring who responded, "and something to wipe up the blood." He was staring at the red on his fingers. It was the second time he had Bruce's blood on his hands. A wet cloth was held out to him, a roll of gauze. Clark didn't bother to look up; he simply grabbed the supplies and started cleaning Bruce's face.

 _He was so pale!_ Clark used his vision to scan his vitals, found the needle marks on his arm. It seemed Edge _had_ given him something. His skin was hot to the touch, and his pulse was throbbing wildly. When Clark had almost finished, long lashes fluttered and blue eyes opened, locked on him in confusion.

_"Clark…"_

"I'll fix this," Clark whispered, leaning close so he couldn't be overheard and trying to sound confident. "Don't—worry. I have to do this one thing and then I'll get you out of here. You'll be fine, I— _I promise."_

_"Clark…"_

"I promise." He was aware that they all were watching him. _More ammunition to use against him._ There was nothing he could do except—

"I love you," he said, his voice a choked whisper, pitched for the ears of angels. _"I love you."_

"This is all very sweet," Edge called out from across the room, "but do you think we can get down to business? Your friend really only has," he checked his watch, "twelve hours. That's…not a lot of time."

Clark settled Bruce as his eyes fell closed again, propped up in the chair in the corner, then stalked over to Edge.

"What do you want me to do?"

"There is a package in a secure building, in an office on the 60th floor. It's in a titanium-reinforced, steel safe."

Edge retrieved a set of building plans and photos from a table and passed them to Clark. The photos showed the outside of a skyscraper. Clark recognized the distinctive logo.

"You want me to steal something from the Luthorcorp building—from Lionel Luthor?"

"Will that be a problem?"

Clark glanced over at Bruce. "It's no problem. I'll take care of it."

So smug. Laughing eyes. Clark wanted to smash the man's face in, but he had already made too many mistakes today, and Bruce was the one paying for them. He would take care of this job, save Bruce…

_His to care for; his to protect._

…and spend the rest of his life making it up to him.

+

It was well past midnight when Clark returned to the underground hideout with the metal box from Lionel Luthor's safe. He hadn't looked in it. He couldn't care less what one criminal wanted stolen from another. All he _wanted_ was for this nightmare to be over. His first concern as he entered the room was for Bruce who was awake and sitting quietly in the chair. Someone had gagged him and tied his hands and feet again, and the sight made Clark fume. Intense blue eyes followed his progress, and Clark tried to use his own to convey reassurance, that this ordeal was almost over. _Trust me. I'll fix this._

Edge was standing with hands in his pockets as he walked up to the desk and slammed the box on it. His bodyguards moved—hands to holsters—one by the door, one to the left. Clark ignored them. They were unimportant. He only had eyes for the gangster who was trying to ruin his life.

A calculating look. A finger that traced the perimeter of the lid. "You are amazing, Kal," Edge said, eyes shining. "Is there anything you can't do?" The gangster shook his head. "Do you know what this is worth to me? I suppose I should pay you. It's only fair."

Clark gritted his teeth, ground out, "I don't want your money. _I don't need your money._ I want the antidote. _Now._ Or I swear I'll—"

Edge made a small clucking sound in the back of his throat. "The antidote. There is no antidote."

"What?"

"You'll be glad to know that I would never give a young man like that a deadly poison. Too many things could go wrong. Instead, I injected him with a stimulant, a highly addictive drug. It won't hurt him—at least, not too much. He might have to give up some of the physical activity he's used to," Edge shrugged, "but we all have to make sacrifices."

The room. It had constricted, like his veins and the blood trying to push through, narrowed to a tunnel, ringed in white, that ended in green eyes—so calm, so superior, as if this was all a game and Clark and Bruce were just puppies to bring to heal.

_"Where's the antidote?"_

"Kal— _there is no antidote._ He'll have to take the drug for the rest of his life, every six hours. If he misses one injection he'll survive, not happily, but he will. If he misses two, his body will start shutting down. I've heard of people dying within days—"

The rest of his life? _The rest of his—_

_"Why are you doing this?"_

Edge shrugged, pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket and started fingering it. "I'm a businessman. You're an asset, an invaluable asset. I'd be insane to let you walk away. You work for me now, Kal. Anything I need you to do, you do. And in exchange, I'll provide you with what your friend needs to stay alive."

It was the image of Bruce standing on his hands in the middle of the penthouse living room—upside down and grinning—that flashed in front of Clark's eyes before everything went red. The rage was like a wave cresting, crashing. He had his hands around Edge's neck—

 _"What did you do—?"_ he yelled into his face. Edge was squirming in his grip, kicking, flailing, trying to dig his nails into the skin of Clark's hands, anything to earn his release. Not realizing it wouldn't matter, Clark was going to snap his neck—

The rest happened so fast Clark couldn't tell whether he actually perceived it all as it happened with his super senses that sometimes galloped in front of his brain, or whether the events were just hanging in the air, and he simply deduced the sequence in a horrible leap of intuition after it was all over.

One bodyguard moved behind Clark, tried to pull him off Edge with an arm around his throat. Before he could decide whether to throw him off, or finish Edge, he heard the cock of a gun. He turned his head, _and the movement seemed to take a lifetime._ He saw the other bodyguard put the barrel of the gun to Bruce's head, finger dancing on the trigger.

_"Don't—"_

Time froze, fractured. Clark stopped moving, preparing to cross the room like a bolt of lightning. His hands loosened on Edge, allowing the old man a second's clarity to put a hand in a pocket.

Like hail, bullets rained down around them all, from mechanical turrets in the ceiling. They couldn't hurt him— _nothing could hurt him_ —but Edge didn't know that. The gangster dived to the side, as Clark used his super speed to bridge the intervening distance between himself and Bruce and his heat vision to take out the turrets. He knocked the handgun away from the guard, knocked him to the ground—but the guard was already falling.

Clark caught Bruce's head as it lolled to the side.

The blood— _there was so much blood!_ Not from a hole in the head— _thank God!_ —but from stray bullets that had hit his chest, his arm, a leg.

 _The blood_ —Clark's own chest was heaving violently. There wasn't enough air for him to breathe. He fell to the floor beside the metal chair, pushed the gag away, broke the ropes that bound Bruce's arms and legs, and gathered him in his arms.

_No._

Laid him carefully on the floor, hands to the hole in his chest, the small circle through his blue cadet's uniform shirt, _through the heart,_ that leaked blood in an ever-expanding stain.

_He needed—_

_Help._ Clark glanced around quickly. Both guards were on the floor. They looked dead, and Edge was nowhere in sight.

_He needed—_

_To do something._ But the blood—it wouldn't stop flowing, and the crux of his attention had narrowed again, down to the head of a pin, focused on Bruce's face and the act of pressing hand to wound to staunch the bleeding—at least until he noticed the most _singular_ thing. A thing so captivating, it consumed all of his attention like a raging inferno does oxygen.

Bruce blinked his eyes open, unfocused and bright with pain. They locked on Clark in hurt and confusion.

_So precious. So beautiful._

Lips parted, trying to form words. Breath hitched—once, twice. Eyelids slowly closed.

_No._

Clark pulled Bruce to his chest. He couldn't—he couldn't _think,_ couldn't move, couldn't let him go. Tears filled his eyes. A sob swelled in his throat. Wrong. _It was all so wrong._ He couldn't have done this, been responsible for this. _He couldn't have—_

He couldn't let Bruce die. _He couldn't live without him._

He would do anything. _Anything—_

That was when it came to him—the answer—like the thunder, a flash of lightning, marvelous in its simplicity.

_Jor-El._


	21. The Only Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried very hard to write this chapter so it would be comprehensible for people, even if they were unfamiliar with _Smallvile._ However, I'm not sure I succeeded. Hence, what you need to know is that in _Smallville,_ Jor-El came to Earth prior to sending his son in the spaceship. He interacted with some Native Americans and left an interface in a cave for Clark to find when he came of age. The cave served as a doorway into the Fortress of Solitude, and could only be activated by a silver disc made of Kryptonian metal, marked with Kryptonian symbols. This disc is like a key, and was intended only for Clark's use.

**XX. The Only Light**

 _Your wide eyes are the only light I know  
from extinguished constellations;  
your skin throbs like the streak  
of a meteor through rain._

+

The distance to the caves in Smallville seemed impossibly far, so like the distance between what he was and what he _used to be,_ the most precious part of himself, clutched tightly, desperately, to his chest. Intervening space, seconds, _minutes wasted,_ an ever-receding destination. Running. Not fast enough. _He flew._

The cave was the same—a dark, dank repository of the secrets of a dead world, masked by the presumption that the hieroglyphics, the strange drawings on the walls, had to be Native American, and they were, in some instances, telling the story in pictures of a visitor from a faraway place who had promised the world a _savior._ That one day, a son from the House of El would come to rule them, to save them from their ignorance and their destructive folly.

Only the symbols in no known Earth language and the indentures—the small spaces carved into the brown rock of a wall, the largest hole only inches wide, placed in the center in the shape of a six-sided disc, _or a key_ —indicated that the cave was so much more than a simple tribute to a strange visitor and a prophecy.

The wall was the guardian, Clark had learned the hard way many months ago. The hexagonal key made of alien metal would turn the wall into a portal of white light, and only by going through it could he start his training, reach his legacy. He had never been willing to step into the unknown dimension that was supposed to exist inside of some _wall_ in a cave; never believed there was anything that mattered beyond his life in Smallville, his family and friends, the treasure of nights and days that comprised his entire world. Now, all he wanted was there to be _more,_ to have access to some _power,_ some way to save the one in his arms. Bruce wasn't moving, _he wasn't breathing._ There had to be a way—

 _"Jor-El…"_ Whispered. Choking.

Clark stared at the rocky facade, in the darkness that hid everything, even the tears that still leaked from the corners of his eyes, even the ravages of denial written on his face.

 _"Jor-El."_

Still, nothing.

The key. Maybe he needed to go— _but there was no time._ He could run and get the key from the toolbox in the Kent barn while Bruce lay dying— _dead_ —but what if the silence had nothing to do with the key? Every bad choice was another moment gone. What if Jor-El refused to answer, since Clark had defied him, refused to start the training he had insisted upon? Maybe—maybe there would _be no answer,_ no way to fix this. He had lost— _he had lost…_

The sun, the moon, the stars, the light and the dark, the warmth and the rain on his heart, the color and the music—even the small bit of peace that lay in red-hued oblivion. He had lost _Bruce._

 _He had lost **everything.**_

Now, the scream came, echoing, full-throated and savage, then the tears again.

 **  
_"Father!"_   
**

He didn't notice the high-pitched whine for the hunched-over intensity of his sobs. Didn't realize anything had changed until the silver disc was floating in the air in front of him, glowing, bright white through the Kryptonian symbols etched across the surface. Didn't understand until hope appeared like the only light in a black abyss, that even at this last extremity, his heritage— _that thing he knew nothing about_ —would not fail him. _Would never fail him._

The disc hovered in the air…and inserted itself into its place in the wall.

"I hear you, Kal-El, my son," came the voice, deep and sonorous, the same voice from his spaceship in the storm cellar at the Kent farm. The voice that had threatened him and demanded that he give up everything or _he would lose it all and hurt everyone he loved most._ "What would you have of me?"

"Save him."

"The road to greatness passes through sacrifice, Kal-El. The sacrifice of this One has brought you to me. Now, you must let him go. Your destiny awaits, and it is beyond the concern for any one individual. This phase of your journey is complete."

Hands tightened on the still form in his arms. "No."

"You were warned, my son. The ways of this world cannot be tampered with lightly. If you had taken up your training, you could have saved him. You have the power. It is your gift. _Now, it is too late."_

 **No.** Clark shook his head. Yelled at the unrelenting rock, _"No!_ I can't _do_ anything, _be_ anything—not like this. Not with—I can't. _Not without him!_ There has to be a way. _Find me a way!"_

There was silence. His voice bounced oddly off the rocks in the large cavern, the power of command behind it, a refusal to _accept._

"Are you willing to sacrifice anything to save him?"

 _"Yes."_

"Are you sure, Kal-El?"

 _"Yes. Anything. Everything. Just—"_

"Then you must come to me and begin your training. Too long have you wasted. Your power is beyond your limited knowledge, the limited capacity of these humans."

Images assailed him, passing in bright colors in front of his eyes, the mistakes he had made over the past three months, a time of indulgence and ruin, each moment sharp as a Kryptonite knife. He flinched away.

"This is what has happened to you since you turned from the path. In your ignorance, you were unable to put your gifts to their highest and best use. You have failed, my son, but success was within your reach every time. You must be trained, you must learn—mathematics, the twenty-three sciences, your history, the history of this planet and these people. Only then will you know how best to use your gifts. Only then will you achieve your destiny. You cannot rule what you do not understand."

"Bruce—"

"This One is worthy, but you will have to leave him behind. _It is the price._ He has his own journey, and you will go where he cannot follow."

Something in his chest constricted, tight, different from the fear of death, but still— _a deathly fear._ Of going on without something so desperately needed, of spending a lifetime without his heart. Even the knowledge that Bruce would be alive and safe wasn't enough— _would never be enough_ —to assuage this desperate longing for them to be happy _together._

"How long?" he choked. "Will I ever see him again?"

"In time," the voice said. "You will serve the life you save all of your days, and The One Loved will ground you to this world like an anchor. In this way shall he repay your devotion."

Clark nodded. That was all he needed to know—that one day, he'd be able to see Bruce again, even if it couldn't be the same. Just to lay eyes on him, to be in his atmosphere. It was a small hope, barren in the face of some undefined span of time where everything would _change,_ but it was a hope less final and awful than the grave. It would have to be enough.

"My family—"

"This place, these people—they have served their purpose, Kal-El. Your journey will take you from here and to the outward, and _beyond."_

Clark closed his eyes, buried his face in Bruce's hair. For a minute he lost himself, in the feel, the scent, then he raised his head and opened his eyes, resigned to his decision. _There was no other decision to make._ He looked down at his hands, cradling Bruce. Noticed the red ring still on his finger. _Amazing. He had forgotten._ He pulled it off and let it drop to the floor. He felt the rush of blood in his veins, but otherwise it was all the same— _and wasn't that ironic,_ that he had managed to wreck his life two times over, and not even the numbness of indulgence could indemnify the people around him from disaster.

Jor-El was right. He was a menace. He needed—so many things. _He needed Bruce._ But he had agreed to put his life in the hands of a stranger who called himself his father and claimed to know what was best. He had agreed to leave his world behind.

"I have to tell them," Clark said as the door opened in the wall, blazing oblivion, a portal to an unknown place. "I can't just disappear. I have to say goodbye."

He didn't hear Jor-El's answer as he stepped through with Bruce clasped tight to his chest, as darkness coalesced and exploded, and beams of light penetrated his brain. He saw things in the fluid of his sight, _amazing things,_ in a jumble of objects, textures and colors. A sound, so low he could barely hear it, whispered in the distance as Bruce was lifted from his arms. Clark reached out for him, grasping, desperately—

"The secrets of seven universes I have preserved for you, my son. This place, this _Fortress of Solitude_ —it is your legacy. Here, you will be trained. _You will be tested._ You will become my vessel, and into you I will pour the accumulated knowledge of our people, so that a world would not have perished in vain. _You are the last son of Krypton._ In you shall our highest ideals be realized."

The light, the blinding, crystalline light, white as snow, cold as ice. Clark stood high above himself on a towering precipice, looking down into his own soul, not with compassion, but with a detached disdain for his own immaturity. Studying every flaw, every mistake with all of the criticism of a stranger, knowing he would be alone in this frigid place, that _this_ was all he had left. Knowing this extremity had spread like water poured out, like blood spilled, from his own actions.

The end of everything that mattered most— _he had brought it all upon himself._

+

Kal-El of Krypton blinked his eyes open, expecting to see the unremitting white of crystal walls rising hundreds of feet into the air, a landscape of ice and glaciers. There was no surprise, only _knowledge._ This was his place, and it contained every secret of his people, his world. Jor-El—

He propped himself up from a pallet that was positioned in the middle of a blue-tinged room. _Something had changed._ A hand swept over his bare chest. He looked down upon his own perfection. The brand, the awful deformity that had marked his entire chest for months was gone—like it had never existed, and it somehow seemed right to him that the indicia of his past mistakes should be sloughed away like an old skin, though he couldn't say why.

Kal-El could not remember how he had gotten to this exact place, or how long he had been sleeping, but the details were unimportant. He knew only one thing for sure: he had awakened to find Bruce.

Flying— _he could fly now_ —he floated swiftly through the silence, through cavernous rooms with translucent walls, searching—

Until he found The One Loved, naked, gloriously free of injury, sleeping peacefully— _only sleeping_ —in a crystalline chamber in the main room of the Fortress. Kal breathed deeply, gratefully, as he retracted the glass, gathered Bruce in his arms and felt the strong beat of a heart that was healthy and whole, the steady pulse of blood through veins. He wasn't sure how, but he knew Bruce had been cured of addiction, and there wasn't a mark on his beautiful body to prove he had ever been shot through the chest. It was as if _time had turned itself backwards,_ to a point preceding the horrible events in Edge's hideaway. Kal could only grasp bits of the concept, but one thing was clear to him: _it was science, not magic, not a miracle, as miraculous as it might seem._ And one day, he would know it all.

Eyes, crystal blue and clear, blinked, blinked open. "Clark—"

Kal hushed him and kissed him deeply, kissed him until he was once again sleeping in his arms. This freezing stillness out of time was only the pause—

 _"So you can say your farewells, my son."_

It was time to take Bruce home.

Kal hugged Bruce to his chest— _for the last time?_ He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't. Something that felt like this— _how could it ever end?_

"Show me something special," he whispered, commanding the air in this place that was his own. "Something…" _he could hold on to when he was lost and too long alone._

The walls faded. Even as the thought of what he wanted flitted, half formed, through his head. And became—

And became.

A sky streaked red and orange, a mountain range ringed by purple clouds in the distance, a bed in the middle of a room with rippling, transparent walls, constructed on level ground high above the earth, a pavilion on top of an unscalable plateau.

Kal smiled, placed his heart down on gossamer sheets, and settled himself beside. There was beauty in this new world, beauty enough to last for years, perhaps, if he took this time, with senses unclouded by a red haze, to study every detail.

As if Bruce could hear his thoughts, as if the slow committing to memory that was the stroking of fingers lightly over every inch of skin provided a conduit to the tumult in his soul, he shifted closer, and opened his eyes.

 _"Clark…"_

+

It seemed like a dream, the way every sensation was heightened, the way the colors on the edges of his vision blended, coalesced into multi-hued smoke, blurring everything. Except Clark. The perfect planes of Clark's face, the remarkable lines of his body stood out in tangible relief. And his eyes, they were a world, faceted and so blue. A landscape Bruce could lose himself in.

"You're awake," Clark said, smiling. "I wasn't sure what I'd have to do to wake you up."

Bruce stretched, gazed up into eyes that looked on him with playful adoration. "I'm not actually awake," he qualified, lifting an eyebrow, pushing into a hand that was now splayed across his thigh. "I think you had better try some of your tricks."

"Some of my tricks—"

"The good ones."

"The really good ones?" Clark questioned amorously as he shimmied down Bruce's body, until lips rested on his stomach, right below his waistline, where fine hairs trailed into a thicker thatch of darkness. Clark blew lightly, then licked skin, and then blew air again, making him squirm.

"You're moving around like you're awake," Clark mused, hands securing hips that jerked as he teased, fitting the tip of his tongue into the indenture of a belly button. "I don't think I need to _wake_ you up." He lifted his head, grinned lasciviously. "I think I just need to _get you up."_

"Stop playing around," Bruce growled, trying to free himself from Clark's hands. "Flip over—"

Bruce lost himself in the sound of laughter as Clark shifted and flipped so his feet were by the headboard, allowing Bruce to do to him what Clark was about to do—with lips and tongue and a mouth that only wanted to give pleasure, that fell open and away in a rush of ecstasy as Clark engulfed him, the whole of his world narrowed down to the pleasure he could give, _the pleasure he could receive._

They didn't tire of that game, but there was so much more for them to do, and somehow, Bruce understood that time was passing, even though the notion of anything other than this moment was amorphous, and himself oddly distrait. He could see the pale bands of colored light moving, chasing shadows across an unfamiliar sky, and he hadn't yet had enough of the taste of him, the way Clark sounded as he pulled him over the edge, the smoothness of skin, the scent of their lust. The many facets of their love.

As Clark moved under him, positioning their limbs so they fit together seamlessly, allowing Bruce inside a body made blissfully familiar by the thousands of moments of pleasure they had shared during their time together, he realized something was different.

"Your chest—" Bruce groaned, pushing into tight heat, blazing from the inside, a place that allowed him, _only him,_ all of its secrets.

Clark closed his eyes, pressure making him catch his breath.

"How—?"

"I don't know. I only know…"

 _I love you._

Words became impossible as Bruce lost control of the pace, as they spiraled together into the rarest moment, where everything between them was in perfect sync, and the feeling of connectedness that always existed between them became pure essence, expanding, engulfing, exploding. It was only afterwards, as Bruce shifted and fell onto his side, languid and spent, that he passed a wondering hand over the expanse of Clark's chest, realizing it was more than just _this_ that was different. There was something about Clark's eyes, and the way he had been touching him, shyly, reverently, that was different, too.

"I didn't even notice. _I should have noticed."_ Bruce shook his head, and a thought occurred to him. "Is this a dream?" he asked, suspiciously. "I'm dreaming, right?"

Clark pulled him down, kissed his lips, his face, mingled their breath, trailed butterfly kisses across the line of his jaw, gathering him in and holding him tight.

"You're not dreaming," Clark whispered sadly, _with such resolute sadness,_ his voice low and close to his ear.

As Bruce's eyes lidded down, he found he was satisfied with that answer. His dreams were a place of nightmares. Nothing this perfect, _nothing this special,_ should ever be relegated to the realm of dreams.

+

Landing on the penthouse balcony was like stepping out of time and into a life remembered in nostalgic flashes, like the happiest of past moments, as distant and unreachable as childhood. What good was wanting to go back— _he could never go back._ All he had left was what he had to do, and a fatalistic respect for the hesitation, the mistake—the finality of the erasure. _The price that had to be paid to fix the worst mistakes._

Clark carried Bruce into the bedroom— _like he had so many times before_ —and placed him on the bed, tucked him under cool sheets. He stepped away, preparing to leave—

But he couldn't leave.

A hand cupped a cheek as he knelt, fingers lightly traced the outline of an eyebrow. It was only fair that he offer one last bit of truth before the lies—

 _"I love you…"_ Whispered into a kiss, deep and long, and again as Bruce breathed, a small, dreaming smile curving his lips.

 _"Will you remember me?"_ Whispered to the approaching dawn that would change _everything,_ like a wrinkle in time, a circle of smoke that pauses briefly on the air before being blown away by the wind, leaving only _memories,_ those small treasures of nights and days, life and death. _And sometimes, not even that._

His chest tightened as with the onset of tears, but the sensation quickly abated. He understood, as he moved around the apartment, collecting, removing every trace of his life there, that the sweetness of the present had been consumed by impermanence, fragility, clean slates. That many long, lonely years lay between him and tears.

 _Everything that has been between us, everything that has gone before—so unforgettable, so easily forgotten...._

 _Will you remember—?_

 _You used to love me._

+

Bruce Wayne woke up shivering.

He was stretched out full-length on his stomach in bed, in his room, in the penthouse. His immediate recollection was drowned in bright white light. He had been dreaming, then, but he was so cold, and everything around him was so still, as if the room had been frozen in time, rather than gripped by the indomitable summer heat.

His first clear intention was to go to the bathroom, and that was what he did, padding across carpet and into his en suite, blankly completing his toiletry without once asking himself anything about the day or the time, or contemplating what should be on his agenda. It was only as he was standing by the sink, staring at himself in the mirror, face colorless, his skin like white paper, fingering an odd tattoo that circled his left bicep with symbols he didn't recognize, but somehow could interpret:

 _…The One Loved…cherished of the House of El…devotee…to thee devoted..._

That he remembered—

 _Clark._

Where was Clark?

Out of the bathroom— _like he had finally awakened from a walking sleep_ —looking around, taking in all of the details he had missed in his ten minutes of oblivion. Clark's things, all of the little things that belonged to him, his hairbrush, cologne, his outrageously expensive watch, the magazine he was reading…yesterday? _The day before yesterday?_ All of Clark's things that had been scattered around the bedroom—gone.

Bruce pulled on shorts, a t-shirt, and walked into the living room, through to the second bedroom, the one Clark hadn't slept in since the early days of their relationship but which held all of his clothing in the closet. Knowing, _somehow knowing,_ what he would find.

Gone. All of it.

A sick, sinking feeling, a slow pacing into the living room and over to his desk. There, he found the only items that let him know it hadn't all been a trick of his imagination. That Clark Kent had, at one time, existed in the colorlessness of this silent world. It hadn't all been a dream.

The red class ring, a computer disk that Bruce picked up, fingered curiously, both sitting on top of a newspaper—a newspaper with the headline:

 _Lex Luthor Lives! Heir Rescued From Desert Island! Full Recovery Expected!_

His breath— _when had breathing become such a task?_ Clark wouldn't have left him—not like this. Not without saying goodbye. _A newspaper headline wasn't an adequate goodbye._

But, the silence in the apartment told a different story, made him feel hollow, and lonely, in a way he'd never thought to feel again.

He remembered—words, whispered. _I love you._ So many promises. _Clark wouldn't leave._ They had…plans. They were leaving _together._ Not apart.

 _"I'll always come back. You are my heart."_

Something was wrong. There was something wrong here. He wasn't certain about anything, except that Clark would be back. Bruce trusted him, he believed in him—

 _Some things simply needed to be believed._


	22. Another Blue

**XXI. Another Blue**

_I think this time when you loved me_   
_will pass away, and another blue will replace it;_   
_another skin will cover the same bones;_   
_other eyes will see the spring…_

+

"Did he say when you would have to go back?" Jonathan Kent asked. His voice was low, gruff with tension.

Clark could tell his father was angry—angry at Jor-El for thinking he knew what his son needed. Angry about not knowing anything other than Clark would have to go, and no one would be sure when or if they'd ever see him again.

"No," Clark said, lifting a foot up on the wooden fence that separated their property from the neighbors and leaning in.

They were standing in the back pasture, watching the sun go down across the fields of corn, watching the cows graze like they had so many times throughout his life. It had been two days since Clark had returned home from Metropolis. Two days of reconciliation, explanations, apologies, assurances. Of reacquainting himself with his parents who he could now see loved him more than anything, despite the problems he always seemed to rain down on their lives. Two days since—

"No," Clark repeated. "He didn't say when I'd have to go back. Soon, though." As Jonathan scowled, Clark rushed to reassure him, "I'm sure I'll have enough time to help you figure out what to do about the farm. Now that I'm back, maybe we could—"

His father shook his head. "I don't want you worrying about the farm, son. Your mother and I have it all worked out. It'll be hard, but we've made it through hard times before. What I'm worried about right now is you—"

Clark closed his eyes. "Don't be," he said. "Jor-El is right. I need to know how to use my powers. I'm dangerous, running around with no training, no idea what I'm doing half the time. When I was in Metropolis—"

He stopped. What to say, without saying too much, going into details he wasn't…ready to discuss, that he certainly didn't want to discuss with his dad? "I was out of control. I could have hurt someone, killed someone, or worse."

Jonathan rested a hand on his shoulder. "That wasn't you, son—"

Turning, Clark looked into his father's eyes, eyes that had believed in him all of his life. It was so hard to disappoint him.

"It _was_ me, dad. I took the ring off. _I chose to put it on,_ every time. I can't blame the things I did on a stupid rock."

"We all make mistakes, Clark. It's part of becoming a man."

Bitterly. "Except my mistakes can get people killed."

There was silence as Jonathan moved to his right side, hands on the fence.

"The important thing is you got through it. You made it home to us, and no one was hurt—"

_No one was hurt._

Sadness pooled like a puddle in the pit of his stomach. "I did hurt someone," Clark admitted in a low tone, and explained about Bruce and Morgan Edge, what had prompted him to deal with Jor-El and, ultimately, to take off the ring. Of course, he left out the most important parts, how Bruce made him feel, all the things they had done _together,_ but he made sure his father understood about their friendship, and how much their relationship meant to him. How brave Bruce was. How he never backed down, even when—

"Bruce saved me, dad. I'm so used to saving everyone else and _he_ saved _me._ The longer I had the ring on the worse I got. I didn't care about _anything,_ what I did, who I hurt. If it wasn't for Bruce, I could have done something—" _Irrevocable._

"I met him," his dad said slowly, "At Lex's funeral. He seemed…like a nice young man." His father ducked his head. "I'm sorry, Clark."

Clark nodded.

"I'm glad I got a chance to meet him. He must be very special—"

Special. Clark blinked slowly, saw the face of the person he loved most, a person he just _knew_ would never forgive him for breaking every promise, for deserting him without a word. Bruce was more than special. _I would never have made it back here; I would never have had this opportunity to fix my life—_

_I would have never known what I looked like if I hadn't seen my face in his eyes._

They walked back to the yellow farmhouse in silence, each lost in his thoughts. It was only after they had closed up the barn that the black towncar pulled into the driveway with the loud crunch of tires on gravel, and Lex Luthor got out.

Clark had missed his friend. He realized just how much as he pulled Lex into a bear hug.

"Lex—"

"I know. The reports of my death were a bit premature."

"Thank God."

"I don't know how much God had to do with it, but I do know one person I need to thank. Can I come in?"

Clark led him into the house, where his mother served up iced tea and Lex presented the deed to the farm to his father—explaining that the compass his dad had given him as a wedding present had been the only thing that had saved his life, led him to solid ground when he was lost at sea, and that saving the farm was his method of repayment.

Jonathan reluctantly accepted, promising to treat Lex like one of the family— _and it was just like old times._ Except now, Clark knew how fleeting such moments could be. Now, he knew the end was in sight. Lex was alive, the farm was safe; _his parents would be fine without him._

Everything in Smallville had reached an equilibrium, and his mind was already dozens of miles away in Metropolis. He stood on the edges of the conversation between his parents and his best friend, smiling when necessary, adding a quip now and then to avoid the questions, feeling the hole in his chest, aching—

Asking himself, over and over again: Where is my heart right now? _Where is my heart?_

+

_A week later…_

The yellow house was smaller than he expected. As Bruce pulled his car into the driveway, under the sign that said _The Kent Farm,_ he figured it was pretty much the way of things. Nothing was ever what you expected it to be.

There was a dog—a Golden Retriever—that ran to his side as he approached the door, barking loudly but then quieting immediately when Bruce leaned down for a pet. He was about to knock on the white door when it opened and a red-haired woman—the one he had met at the funeral, Martha Kent—almost walked into him.

"Oh," she said, smiling as he straightened up.

"Mrs. Kent—"

"Bruce Wayne. I remember you from the funeral. And, of course, Clark's told us—well, he told us what you did for him in Metropolis. You're looking for Clark? Do you want to come in?"

And just like that, the tension that had built up over the long drive to Smallville, worrying about what he should say to Clark, to his parents, was released. He was bustled into a living room and supplied with a cold drink and an offer of sweets. He hadn't smiled in days, _too many days,_ but it was almost enough to coax his lips into that forgotten position. Almost.

"Thank you," he said, shaking his head at the offer of a refill. "Is Clark—"

"I'm sorry, Bruce. He's in town, at the Talon."

"The Talon?"

"The town coffeehouse. There aren't very many places where young people can hang out around here. You're welcome to wait but it's karaoke night and he might be a while. Of course, if you wanted to drive over there, I'm sure he'd be glad to see you."

Bruce wasn't so sure, and his doubt must have been plain on his face because Martha Kent patted his hand sympathetically.

"I know—" she paused, pursed her lips, "Clark's told us you were the reason he decided to come home. I want to thank you. For everything you did for Clark, for protecting him, for—"

Bruce closed his eyes, opened them again. Why did his life seem like such a ridiculous nightmare? When was he going to wake up? "I didn't do anything," he said slowly. "Clark was able to take care of himself. He didn't need me."

Martha Kent smiled at him fondly. "I _know_ he needed you, though it might not seem like it now. My son's life is complicated. He can't always do what he might like to do. Sometimes, things have to change. It doesn't make anything that has gone before any less important."

Abruptly, Bruce stood up from the sofa. He didn't know how to have this conversation. All he wanted was to find Clark. Make him explain—

"I think I'll head over to the Talon," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Kent. It was a pleasure seeing you again."

Then, he was out of there, pulling deep breaths into closed lungs as he sat behind the steering wheel of his car, trying to regain his equilibrium. There was so much love in her eyes, so much compassion and concern.

Maybe, he had been wrong. _All wrong._ Maybe…Clark belonged here, with his mother, _not with him._

There was only one way to find out. He could no longer tolerate not knowing.

The drive into town seemed to take a lifetime. A long, lonely road, the unremitting sameness of the scenery on both sides of the car. Corn and cows. So easy to miss the turn off the main highway to the small town center. So easy to keep driving east, to end up back in Metropolis where he had started. Bruce wasn't sure what he was doing in Smallville, anyway, except he was apparently a glutton for punishment and needed to witness such an incomprehensible betrayal with his own eyes. After all, Clark couldn't have made his intentions more clear. The disappearance, days without a call or a message. _Clark had no intention of returning, despite his promises._ It wouldn't take a genius to figure it out.

Still, Bruce _needed_ to exhaust every possibility. He needed it the way he needed to keep his mind focused on the present and not on the past. On his anger and not on memories of some of the happiest moments of his life. So he had tried calling Clark's cell phone, only to find that it had been disconnected, visited Clark's apartment in Metropolis and found it had been vacated the way the penthouse had been vacated. But even with every signpost indicating that the return of Lex Luthor had somehow changed everything between them, Bruce wanted confirmation. He wanted Clark to look him in the eyes and tell him that it had all meant nothing. He thought he deserved that much.

Smallville proper consisted of a main strip of retail shops, a couple of school buildings, a church, a bank, a library. In the middle of the avenue, there was a remodeled movie theater with red letters across the marquee, dubbing the place "The Talon" and offering free pick-up lines with every latte. Bruce parked his car. There was a metered space right in front of the building that required feeding until 7 p.m.

It only took him ten minutes to decide to get out of the car.

The Talon was buzzing with a relaxed atmosphere, not crowded by any means, but pleasantly filled with high school kids and younger adults congregating in groups, talking and laughing over the music that played in a thrumming low tone in the background. Bruce stood in the doorway and surveyed the room. His eyes found Clark immediately. He stood out from the crowd the way a professional athlete stands out from everyday people, only…

Clark looked…completely different. Bruce could only marvel at the remarkable _change._ Plaid shirt over a red tee, ordinary blue jeans, work boots that looked like they had seen better days. Even his hair—nothing gelled or slicked back, simply a mess of bangs that fell into his eyes. He looked—

He looked—

Happy, and young, and lit up from the inside—perfectly at home hanging out in this poor shadow of a Metropolis hotspot, laughing, with Lex Luthor sitting at his side.

That feeling—the one where he was sure he had made a terrible mistake coming here—closed over him again, tightening his stomach. He was about to turn around and walk out. _All he had ever wanted was for Clark to be safe and happy._ But just then Lex leaned closer to Clark, placed a proprietary hand on his arm, and started speaking to him as if they were the only two people in the room. Bruce could see his lips form the word _Metropolis_ and felt pulled outside of himself. He was moving forward before he even realized it, only to stop dead when their conversation became clear.

"You're going to have to tell me what you did in Metropolis, Clark. Something's changed…"

"I got into a little too much trouble—"

Lex scoffed. "Clark Kent, our resident Boy Scout, got into trouble?"

Clark smiled, ducked his head… _bashfully?_ "Even farmboys have to live a little, I guess. But I really want to put the summer behind me. I made a lot of mistakes, and I want to start over."

"That's understandable. I've done a lot of things in my past that I want to forget."

It was then that Lex caught sight of him. An eyebrow went up, and he leaned back in his chair, casting a curious gaze along the length of him.

"Bruce Wayne…"

Bruce watched as Clark turned slowly in his seat. Their eyes locked. Everything in the room faded, became unimportant, as he was finally able to see for himself whether or not Clark really intended this to be the end of everything. It was his last hope:

_I'm saying if I loved you, I would walk out that door and never come back…_

All he wanted was some small proof that this, _this retraction of everything promised,_ was simply some misguided attempt on Clark's part to protect him.

"Clark—"

"Bruce Wayne…" Lex, again. Bruce had no eyes for him.

"Metropolis," Lex mused out loud, crossing his legs. "Now it all begins to make sense."

"Clark, I—"

Clark got up from his seat, knocking the chair over in the process. "Bruce—"

"Isn't this special? Trolling for high school students these days, Bruce? I didn't know you had it in you—"

"Shut up, Lex. Clark, I need to talk to you. Can we—?"

Clark looked down at Lex, _as if for permission,_ and the very thought of such a thing made his hands tighten into fists.

"Lex, I'll—"

"Be right back." Lex glanced over Bruce with curious disdain, then his attention returned to Clark. "You don't have to go through this, Clark. Our friend Bruce here is used to getting his own way. A little disappointment won't hurt him."

Bruce stepped forward, wanting with every fiber of his being at that moment to knock the smirk off of Lex's face. "You don't know what you're talking about—"

"Why don't you enlighten me—?"

But Clark's hand was on his arm now, trying to pull him away— _and wasn't that ironic?_

"Lex, come on. I'll be right back."

Then they were navigating around the tables, and out into the evening air. As soon as they were standing outside Bruce jerked his arm out of Clark's grasp and knocked him away with a strong push to the chest. Clark stumbled backwards.

_"Asshole. You goddamn asshole."_

"I'm sorry—"

"What are you sorry for, Clark? For leaving and _not even saying goodbye?_ For lying through your teeth? For making me think—for making me look _stupid_ for thinking you gave a shit?"

Clark wouldn't look at him. His hands were in his pockets and his head was hung low, as if he felt guilty—but Bruce didn't want his _guilt._ He wanted Clark to admit he'd been wrong to leave, and that all he wanted was the chance to come back.

"I'm sorry, Bruce. I really am. I just—I didn't know how to tell you—"

_"Tell me what?"_

Clark looked up. His eyes were dark blue rings around a darker core in the evening shadows. "That I wanted to come home. I needed to come home—"

The fist around his heart released its grip, just a little. Bruce softened his voice. "What did you think I'd do, Clark? I wasn't trying to take you away from your family, to make you choose me over your life here. If you want to stay in Smallville, I'm perfectly okay with that. We could still—"

"No, Bruce."

"What?"

Clark turned away, walked over to a parking meter and starting twisting the dial. "It just won't work. I need to get back to my life here, and you have your own things to do. All we ever did was get in trouble. I want to put all of that behind me—"

Bruce placed a hand on Clark's shoulder, spun him around. _"You want to put it all behind you?_ How exactly do you do that, Clark? What about your father? What about the abuse? How—"

"I lied." Clark's eyes were wide, reflecting their own brand of shame and guilt. "My dad never hurt me. The mark on my chest was something that I did. Something I did to myself."

"You lied," Bruce repeated, incredulously. _"What else did you lie about, Clark?"_

Clark paused, as if to gather his courage. "Everything." He ducked his head.

 _Everything._ There was something about hearing Clark disclaim three entire months, every promise, that made Bruce want to be sick. "I don't believe you," he said, shaking his head. "Why are you doing this?" He reached out. "You can't tell me that _everything_ was a lie. Did someone threaten you? Does this have something to do with Morgan Edge—?"

"No. I left you what you need to take care of Edge—"

_"Then tell me why."_

"I—we had a great time, but it was just a fantasy, just me running away from my problems. I've fixed things, now, Bruce. I have a second chance. Lex—"

 _"Fuck Lex!"_ Bruce had Clark by the arms, was shaking him. Needed to shake some sense into him, needed something to make sense. _"What about Lex?"_

Clark's eyes—they were unfathomable depths ringed with unacceptable sympathy, and he made no move to stop Bruce from manhandling him. "Me and Lex, we—"

Then Lex was there, in between, asking Clark if he was okay.

"Bruce—" Lex said, in that dry voice that he hated. "What do you think you're doing? Clark's not some rag doll—"

But Bruce had nothing to say to Lex. He only had eyes for Clark. _"Tell me you want him."_

"Bruce—"

"Just say it."

"You said you only wanted me to be happy," Clark said slowly. "I'm happy, here with my family and friends. With Lex—"

Bruce nodded. He had what he wanted. There was really nothing else—

"I think you've overstayed your welcome—"

—except to punch Lex in his smug face. His gaze followed Clark as he knelt beside his friend, full of concern, not bothering to look up as Bruce backed away, as he turned, and walked to his car. It was the last time he'd see Clark Kent, he was sure, and the image of him with Lex, kneeling at his side, not caring whether Bruce came or went was burned into his memory in vivid color. He promised himself it would be the only thing he'd ever allow himself to dwell on, the only thing he would remember about his summer in Metropolis.

+

"Well, Clark, that was interesting," Lex said as he felt his tender jaw. "Though, I think you should warn me next time you plan to use me to dump someone—"

"I'm sorry, Lex," Clark mumbled, pulling away as his friend got to his feet. "I have to—"

Clark turned and stumbled away. Started jogging, then running, and didn't even bother to turn as Lex yelled out his name. Shifted to super speed as soon as he could, racing alongside the road that led to Metropolis, until Bruce's red sports car was close enough to touch. All he wanted— _all he wanted in the whole world_ was to apologize for the hurt and the embarrassment he had caused, to wrap Bruce in his arms and kiss away the pain, until Bruce was sure once again that Clark's heart belonged only to him, and that Lex Luthor could never come between. But such a confession would require the truth, and Clark had no truth he could give.

How many times had he done this? To Lana, Chloe, Lex, Pete. Always the lies to protect the people he loved from the outrageousness of his life. To keep the secrets, secrets that other people would kill to obtain from anyone around him that seemed to know the truth. It always hurt, seeing the disappointment on their faces as he lied, knowing he was the cause. But this time, the hurt—it was so much worse than anything he had ever felt. As he slowed, as he let Bruce's car pull away and finally fade into the distance, Clark stumbled to a halt and threw up by the side of the road.

_"Keep your secrets, if you need to. Put this all behind you when it's through. I won't be the one to make you explain it all just to satisfy my curiosity. I love you. I'd love you if I didn't know anything about you at all. If I somehow forgot your face, I'd still love you. All I want is for you to be happy."_

_Necessary._ To save his _life._ No matter how hard he tried to convince himself—he knew. Bruce was the one person he could have trusted with the truth, the one person who wouldn't have needed the truth.

His happiness. His future. _He had no future._ He had just wrecked everything.

+

Bruce parked his car down the block from Harvey's walk-up apartment building. Jogged to the door and rang the bell, realizing he'd only ever stopped by Harvey's new apartment twice over the entire summer. Their entire relationship had devolved into Harvey trying to keep their friendship going while Bruce was off chasing after Clark. He needed to apologize to his friend for being an inconsiderate ass. Harvey was always there when he needed him, and Bruce had spent months taking him for granted.

"Bruce—" Harvey said, clearly surprised to find him standing there when he opened the door.

"Hey, Harv—"

His friend was so glad to see him, and Harvey's enthusiasm for his company was like a soothing balm to his wounded ego. They watched the game and had some of the guys over, drinking, eating pizza and talking about nothing important. It was just like old times, comfortable and easy. And when the clock passed two a.m., and Bruce still hadn't made any move to return to his own apartment, Harvey took that as an invitation to try one more time for what he had made so clear he wanted. This time, Bruce didn't turn him away.

There were no longer any encumbrances on his heart, and even if he still believed Harvey's interest in him stemmed from a strange sort of worship, it was all he needed at the moment.

Tomorrow was a new day, another chance for him to re-dedicate himself to the things in his life that were important.

He had _wasted time,_ loving Clark Kent. Out of all the mistakes he'd made over the past three months— _and he'd made many_ —that was the worst indictment.


	23. Through the Shadows

**XXII. Through the Shadows**

 _No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,  
we will go together, over the waters of time.   
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,  
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon._

+

Clark found him in the same restaurant— _The Shark Bar_ —that had served as the site of their first reunion, all those months ago. Only this time, instead of a table filled with people, there were only two—Bruce and Harvey—and the way that Harvey was smiling, the way he hung on Bruce's every word, told Clark that things had changed between them.

 _In a matter of days, everything had changed._

He could only watch, listen from a distance as Harvey presented a plan for Bruce's future that would rectify the dismissal from the police academy and the arrest. It only hurt like a knife through the heart to hear Bruce agree that their time together had messed up his life, his focus. That he was better off putting the past behind him.

Love was the darkest gift. The darkest gift. It blew through the heart, leaving nothing but strangers in its wake. Clark had lived up to his end of the bargain. He had cut every tie, lied through his teeth in everyone's best interest, so the people he loved could move on without him.

 _It shouldn't hurt so much to watch the world move on without him._

He was tired, and even though Jor-El hadn't called for him, he felt it was time to go. The prospect of another day seemed muted, blunted, a waste of effort. The Fortress would bring a certain numbness. He could focus on his training to stop the pain.

He watched as Bruce stilled, and looked in his direction. Clark faded into the shadows. In a blink of an eye, he was gone.

+

It was raining buckets on the day Bruce finished closing up the penthouse and marked the last box for shipping to Gotham. His plane was leaving in three hours, weather permitting, and now that he had whittled his life down to one backpack, he found he didn't know what to do with himself while he waited for his car service. One last sweep around an apartment he could no longer bear to live in, where every shadow mocked him and every available space held a memory.

There was nothing left for him in Metropolis. He'd been drummed out of the police academy. His whole world had been turned upside down. Even Harvey wasn't enough to make him want to stay. He was only a pale substitute, in any case, and Bruce knew he wasn't being fair to him.

He couldn't sleep. He couldn't eat. Time spent with his friends seemed like a repetition of vanities. His nightmares were all consuming. Half the time he couldn't tell whether he was asleep or awake.

If he stayed in this place any longer, something terrible would happen.

The phone rang. Bruce didn't bother answering it. He simply made his way out of the apartment for the last time, to the elevator and down. It was time for a change, and the one thing he had gained from his time with Clark was the knowledge that nothing lasts forever, that there wasn't a promise that mattered, except the ones he made to himself.

As the elevator door opened and he stepped out into the lobby, he touched the red ring that hung on a chain around his neck. It was there to remind him that the worst betrayals came from the people you trusted, and to trust no one was the only way to prevent a heart from being trampled and left broken in a puddle of muddy water.

A wind blew as he stepped out of the building. A wind filled with infinite space, like the space between two hearts. He felt expectation seize him, a knowledge that his journey would take him far from everything he knew, and he couldn't see the end of it. It was the only thing that mattered, now, going forward.

Don’t look back. _Never look back._

The past was ashes on the wind.


	24. Like Never, and Like Always

**Epilogue: Like Never, and Like Always**

 _That time was like never, and like always.  
So we go there, where nothing is waiting;  
We find everything waiting there._

+

 _Eleven years ago…at the Kent farm…in Smallville…_

Bruce could hear the howling of the wind over their heads, the violent sounds of wood, metal and glass crashing and breaking, the loud crack of thunder that sent shivers of fright through him, or maybe it was just the cold dampness of his clothing that caused his limbs to tremble and his body to shake. But the boy with the blue eyes held his hand in a firm grip, warm and clammy, as he had during the harrowing run through the cornfields. It was unseemly, of course, but Bruce tolerated it. Obviously, the boy needed some sort of comfort. The wide grin on his face could only be a coping mechanism, to help with the fear. His counselor—the one he'd been forced to talk to _after_ —had explained all about such things.

But the pretty lady with the red hair pulled the boy from his grasp, kissing his pale face and chastising him gently for running off into a storm she called a _tornado,_ as she stripped him down to his underwear, toweled him dry and draped a blanket over his shoulders. Before Bruce could get his bearings, bereft of the hand that was his anchor in this strange place, it was his turn, the woman's soothing voice talking at him a mile a minute while she divested him of his traveling suit and the black shoes that now sloshed as he moved. He was left standing in a most undignified condition, with instructions to share the blanket with the boy, Clark. Bruce glanced quickly over at Alfred, sure that his guardian would have something to say about all of this, but Alfred was on the other side of the storm cellar, talking in low tones to the boy's father—Jonathan.

"Here," the boy said, opening the blanket, motioning for him to share.

Bruce looked down his nose, which was hard. The boy was tall, almost as tall as himself, and he was afraid he couldn't get quite the right effect. "How old are you?" he asked, voice disdainful.

"Seven."

"You're too tall to be seven," Bruce stated confidently.

"I'm seven," Clark insisted, stubborn, mouth turning down into a frown. "What do you know, anyway?"

"I'm nine," Bruce explained, and that should have told the boy _everything._

"So?" Clark wrapped the blanket around himself. "I'd be embarrassed to be nine and be afraid of a little storm—"

"I'm not afraid!"

Then a voice from across the room, _"Clark—play nice."_

The boy turned, glowered at his father, studied Bruce for a long moment before sighing resignedly. "Here," he said, unwrapping himself from the blanket and draping it over Bruce's shoulders. "I didn't mean to make you mad."

Now, the boy looked forlorn and awkward with his arms crossed over his boney chest without any cover against the biting air that penetrated even this underground place. Bruce supposed it wasn't fair for him to monopolize the _entire_ blanket. After all, the boy had saved them from the storm, and although Bruce was sure they were never in any real danger, it had been uncomfortable, being out in the pouring rain, and hospitality should be acknowledged and appreciated. Alfred had always said so.

Bruce opened his arms. "Here," he said. The boy smiled like the sun and cautiously moved within the circle of his arms, as if afraid Bruce would snap at him again. Bruce sighed, tugged him in and closed the blanket around the both of them.

"I'm not _afraid,"_ Bruce explained. "I'm not _afraid_ of anything, especially not some stupid _storm."_ He wanted the boy to understand his position, as Clark maneuvered them towards some crates where they could both sit down. "It's simply that the noise is so obnoxiously _loud,_ much louder than the storms in Gotham. I was _surprised."_

"I didn't _really_ think you were afraid," Clark assured him, nodding, his blue eyes wide and earnest, but then the thunder sounded again, like the vicious crack of a whip— _or a gun_ —causing Bruce to jump. Clark's hand found his own. "The noise is loud, though. My dad says it's because of all the open sky. It just takes some getting used to, is all."

Bruce let the boy talk, resigned to him babbling on about the goats, and the cows, and the way the chickens hid in the barn whenever a _really_ big storm was coming. The boy never seemed bothered that Bruce's contribution to their discussion was meager. It seemed enough for him that Bruce was listening. He seemed content when he succeeded in making Bruce smile. Alfred kept glancing in their direction quizzically, through the many hours they were trapped in the cellar, but did nothing to interfere. And when Jonathan announced it was safe to go above ground, Clark had him by the hand and was pulling him up the stairs and into the fading sunlight before his father could even finish the sentence. They took off running.

Later, covered in mud, they burst into the yellow farmhouse, to startled exclamations of, _Clark!_ and, _My floor!_ and, _Get upstairs, you naked children…rolling in the mud like the pigs!_ and Alfred's aghast expression, teacup frozen in the air like the end dot on an exclamation point.

Clark's grin was unrepentant, as his mother swatted at his bottom, his laughing eyes saying he'd race Bruce up the stairs, and _the last one to the bathroom was a rotten egg_ —even though Bruce hadn't the slightest idea where the bathroom would be in this strange house. It was a small enough place, to Bruce anyway, and he was sure he'd manage to find the bathroom and win. After all, Clark was only _seven._

Showers, a set of Clark's clothes that fit him well enough, dinner—food that was as good as Alfred's, and not even fancy. Halfway through his meal, after Clark had somehow deposited all his peas on Bruce's plate without anyone even _noticing,_ he looked around and realized…he felt like he was _home._ It seemed as if it had been forever since he'd had an entire hour where he hadn't thought about—

Clark was elbowing him, focusing pleading eyes on his mother, wanting to be excused from the table and indicating that Bruce should lend a pathetic gaze to the cause. Then they were off and running, restricted to the house but content to build a fortress of blankets and sheets in Clark's bedroom, where they whispered secrets in tones too low for the prying ears of adults, armed with flashlights when they were instructed to go to bed and where they eventually retired, in sleeping bags, on the floor.

Bruce woke up certain of one thing. He wanted to stay.

After breakfast, he pulled Alfred into the living room by the arm and explained how he thought things should be, saying, "Alfred, I think I should like to live here—with Clark."

Alfred smiled at him, but it was indulgent, and not serious. Bruce could always tell when his guardian was taking him seriously and when he was just humoring him. He frowned.

"That would be quite impossible, Master Bruce—"

Bruce shook his head. "Nothing is impossible—isn't that what you always say, Alfred?"

"Yes, young sir, but these kind people—you cannot unilaterally decide to impose upon them—"

"Clark would let me stay—"

"I am sure, but he is a child, and the decision—"

"But I want to stay here!"

"You cannot."

"But _why,_ Alfred? Why can't I stay?"

"Master Bruce—"

"It was okay to leave me with strangers in California, but not okay to leave me here?"

"Master Philip is your uncle. He is family—"

"He's not my family!" Bruce shouted. "He's a stranger! You left me there! For a whole year—" Bruce could feel the tears running down his face. It was deplorable behavior—to be crying and screaming like a child, but he couldn't seem to help himself. "I want to stay here," he said again, trying to catch his breath. "I want—"

It was impossible. He wanted…so many things. His parents, an end to the nightmares, a…friend of his own, so he didn't have to be all alone.

He ran—out of the house and in the direction of the barn. Once inside, he threw himself on the ground, in a pile of hay, and had a cry in earnest. He was still sniffling, embarrassed, when Clark appeared some ten minutes later.

"Are you okay?" Clark asked, standing over him nervously.

Bruce glared up at him. Clark had…everything, and he had… _nothing._ "Leave me alone," he said, burying his face in arms that were folded on his knees.

Silence. "Do you want to play ball?"

"No. Go away."

"Alfred said—"

"I don't care what Alfred said!" Bruce yelled, launching himself at Clark and knocking him to the ground. They fought, Bruce wildly and somewhat unfairly, until they both ran out of steam and were laying on the ground amidst the dirt and the hay, bruised and breathing heavily.

Clark glanced at him sidelong. "I asked my dad if you could stay."

Bruce closed his eyes.

"He said it was complicated. That's what he always says when he means no."

Bruce ignored him.

"I could ask my ma—"

"Don't."

"I don't want you to go. I don't understand why you can't—"

"Your dad is right," Bruce said, opening his eyes, looking at Clark. "It's complicated. I don't belong here."

"You could, if they'd let you."

There was nothing for Bruce to say. They wouldn't let him stay. Alfred had lied. Some things _were_ impossible.

"I'm going to miss you," Clark said, and he sniffled.

Bruce turned to him. "Don't cry," he said, reaching out a hand. "I haven't left yet. We probably have all day. By the time they get a tow truck to get the car out of the ditch, and Alfred fixes the car and changes the tire and gets gas—and with all the damage from the storm—it should take him hours," Bruce said, regaining his confidence.

Clark sat up, crossed his legs. "How do you know all that?" he asked.

Bruce shrugged, sitting up himself. "It just makes sense."

"You're smart," Clark said, admiringly. "I'm going to be smart like you when I'm nine. You want to play ball now?"

They spent the whole day playing, and Bruce kept a watchful eye on the progress of the adults as they came and went, engaged in the tasks that would ensure that he and Alfred would be able to leave at some point during the day. He tried not to let it bother him, not to spoil Clark's fun, but it wasn't as easy for him to ignore the passage of time, and though their play was joyful, it was overshadowed by the knowledge that their time together would be too short.

The sun had made its way across the sky. Bruce stopped chasing Clark for a moment and watched as Alfred lowered the car from off the jack. Clark's father turned into the driveway in his red pick-up. He stopped the truck by the car and fetched a container of gasoline from the back.

Bruce hollered for Clark to stop running, and pulled him into the barn and up the stairs to the loft, where they collapsed together on the floor in a heap.

"I have to go," he said. "Alfred is almost ready—"

"But—"

"I had a great time. The best."

Clark's eyes were wide, and blue, and too solemn. Bruce smiled for him.

"If I had a brother," Clark said in a rush, "I'd want him to be just like you."

"If I had a brother," Bruce said slowly, "I'd want him to be just like you."

Twenty minutes later, Alfred called for him.

Paths diverge. _In a storm, in a cornfield, too young to know any better. When the sky has fallen and a world has come to an end—a simple glance can capture a heart like a butterfly between hands clasped shut._

Paths haunted by echoes, footsteps. _Is there such a thing as love at first sight? Do certain hearts recognize each other? Are they fated to meet and to love, perhaps forever?_

A foundation laid in Smallville as children, a meeting as random as the stars. Built upon at a Princeton fundraiser under the watchful gaze of Lex Luthor, lives touching again, too briefly. Tested. In Metropolis, one summer— _blazing together._ The world watching, wondering, _always wondering:_

 _Why is Batman the only one who can control Superman? Why is Superman the only one who can make Batman lose control?_

Time, a continuation, ever circular. _The heart recognizes. Across time and distance—the heart calls to its own._

Paths diverge. They have met, will meet again. Many years later, in Gotham City, in Metropolis, astride the world as heroes, adversaries, allies. _"What happened to your heart, Bruce? You keep it closed—even the ones you love you won't let in. How did you lose your heart so completely? I think you must have given it away…"_

Always haunted by the memory of another time. A time that allowed him the most joy, the most desire, the most regret. That taught him how to break every rule, how to live life on the verge, master the obsession at the extremes. That drove him out of comfort and into a parching stint in the wilderness of his own soul.

 _He can only remember._ Clark is there, in his dreams, in every storm. _No other person can compare._ The only peace he will ever find is in the blue of his eyes, the sunshine of his smile. He knows—he has always known: _his heart will never open again for any other._ It belongs to Clark—

Despite the bitterness:

 _I gave him everything, and he left me with nothing, never looking back. The biggest mistake I ever made was trusting Clark Kent._

The futile promises:

 _Never again to allow such a madness, where I wandered through the wilderness, lost and confused, lacking the focus that has been my saving grace my entire life._

And the mission, _always the mission:_

 _To take the past upon myself once more, but this time to change it._

But in the end, together, always, there is, _there will be,_ truth:

 _Clark: the sun and the rain on my heart._

 _Bruce: the light and the dark of my soul._

Superman. Batman. _Which one the hero of their story?_ One day, in the future, they will understand: the hero is not a person or an icon, a larger than life legend. The hero is the Love, and even its downfall is but a pretext for achieving its final victory.

 _finis_

**Author's Note:**

> 1--All the poetry bits at the beginning of each section come from _Cien sonnets de amor (100 love sonnets)_ by Pablo Neruda, translated by Stephen Tapscott.
> 
> 2--I used a specific turn of phrase in the **Prelude,** specifically, "a heightened and unhinged world" which comes from the same book of poetry, but I don't remember at the moment the exact number of the sonnet. The entire sentence is _"Forever on the verge, on the edge of a slightly heightened and unhinged world"_
> 
> 3--I was reading Rilke when I was working on chapter 10, and used a particular bit: _...each heartbeat intended for him lifted him up, beyond it; and, turning away, he stood there, at the end of all smiles,--transfigured._
> 
> 4--A bit more Rilke, that I used generally but not specifically: _To fall from the mastered emotion into the guessed-at, and onward._
> 
> 5--More Rilke in chapter 16: _lead him out close to the garden, give him what outweighs the heaviest night...Restrain him_
> 
> 6--I used a bit of this quote in chapter 17: _All men are tempted. There is no man that can't be broken down, provided it is the right temptation, put in the right spot._ \--Henry Ward Beecher
> 
> 7--I followed the Smallville episodes around this arc and used specific dialog from the episodes in certain places, such as the phone booth scenes, and the scene with Martha and Jonathan Kent in the barn, talking about the foreclosure on the farm. Lex's funeral scene was also heavily based on the episodes, though, of course, the actually episode focused on Lana and her seeing Clark in the distance.
> 
> 8--In the Epilogue, I used a certain concept "The hero is the Love" and "Its downfall is only the pretext to its ultimate victory". I don't remember where I read or heard this concept, or how it was presented exactly. I have a tendency to remember bits and pieces of things that impress me with the possibilities of meaning. In any event, it's not an original thought, though it might be an original presentation.
> 
> 9--For the Smallville fans: This story comprises the three-part red-K arc that ended season 2 and opened season 3. You'll notice I stayed pretty consistent with the episodes up until the point that Lana shows up in Metropolis, looking for Clark. The show, at that point, starts to wrap the arc up. Jonathan goes to the cave to make a deal with Jor-El, he gets "imbued" with superpowers somehow and goes to Metropolis to confront Clark. He finds Clark in the LuthorCorp building, stealing something for Morgan Edge. Jonathan and Clark fight, Clark is about to administer the killing blow, and Jonathan taunts him with the standard, "Do it. If I raised a son who could kill, then go ahead and do it." Instead of smashing his fist into Jonathan's face, he smashes his fist into the wall by his head, breaking the red-K ring into pieces. The brand disappears from his chest and Jonathan's powers dissipate.And all is right with the world. More or less. Smallville never really explains how all the sort of magical things happen -- the branding, giving Jonathan powers, talking to a dead guy -- except to say Jor-El is the embodiment of the will of a person who had died. *shrug*


End file.
